


Just Pretend Now

by justkisa



Series: Vegas [1]
Category: Football RPF, MCFC RPF
Genre: Adultery, F/M, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 04:49:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not what Joe imagined would happen when they went to Vegas (but maybe he should have).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Pretend Now

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING:** This story includes Adam Johnson as a character and references a story I wrote that is no longer publicly available which featured him in a relationship with David Silva. For an explanation as to why that story is no longer publicly available go [here.](http://justkisa.tumblr.com/post/139054037258/adam-johnson) I have left this story up because, while Adam Johnson is a character in the story, he is not one of the central figures.
> 
> 1) This was started as a response to [this prompt](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/2971.html?thread=552859) on footballkink2 and is, therefore, set during the summer of 2011. 
> 
> 2) A million thanks to the wonderful and amazing ladytelemachus for the beta. <3

It takes Vegas exactly one day to thoroughly exhaust Joe. On the morning - early afternoon, really - of the second day, he slumps across from Gaz and pokes disinterestedly at the breakfast, lunch, whatever, that had seemed like a good idea when he’d ordered it. Everyone’s talking around him, trying to work out what to do. Joe slouches down farther and drinks more coffee. 

Gaz kicks him, hard, right in the shin. “Wake up.”

“What the fuck, Gaz? You trying to break my leg? Fuck.”

Gaz laughs. “Sure. ‘Cause that’s something I want to explain to the gaffer. Don’t be such a pansy. I barely touched you.” 

Joe glares at him and raises his mug to drink, only to find it’s empty. He puts it down and steals Gaz’s. “Hey!” Gaz says, reaching across the table, “What’re you--” Next to him, Louise starts to laugh. 

Joe smiles, winks at her, and takes another sip. “Serves you right for kicking me.”

Gaz frowns then says mournfully to Louise, who’s still laughing, “He took my coffee.” 

“He sure did, love,” she says with a sincerity that’s somewhat spoiled by her giggling. “Here,” she hands him hers, “have mine. I’m done with it anyway.” 

Gaz takes the mug and gives her a goofy little smile. “Thanks.” Joe looks down at the table and drinks Gaz’s coffee. “So, Harty, “ Gaz says, amiable again, “what do you fancy doing?”

Joe looks up. The coffee’s gone so he puts the mug next to his own empty mug. “Dunno, don’t feel up to much. When’s Johno coming again?”

Gaz shrugs. “Not sure, not ‘til later though.”

“Huh. Can’t we just, I dunno, m’shattered, don’t want to, you know...”

“You,” Gaz says with mocking disbelief, “too tired for a good time? Say it ain’t so, Harty.” 

“Fuck you,” Joe snaps, “I just, dunno, I’m on holiday, can have a rest if I like, right?” He looks at Louise. “Right? Back me up here.” 

She smiles a little. He’s never sure how she feels about him. She always seems a bit bemused by his and Gaz’s friendship. She’s always nice to him, though, too nice to him, really, for his comfort, but as far as she knows, she’s no reason not to be. He isn’t sure, though, how he really feels about her. “Right,” she says, “always nice to relax a bit, we could...”

Gaz interrupts, “So now you’re on his side, what’s this?” 

She rolls her eyes and keeps going. “Go check out the pool, seems really nice. You could,” she adds with a bit of mischief, “lie around and do nothing if you’re too tired for anything fun.” That last bit makes Gaz smile. 

Joe decides to ignore that. “Sounds good to me. What’ya think Gaz, think we can get these jokers to agree?”

“If that’s what you want.” Gaz’s not talking to Joe, though, he’s talking to Louise.

She smiles and winks at Joe. “Think so, yeah.”

Joe looks away when Gaz smiles at her, private and intimate, and says, “Okay then, let’s do it.” 

***

The pool area is opulently posh. It’s filled with efficient servers who bring you everything you ask for and the most comfortable loungers Joe thinks he’s ever sat on. 

The pool itself seems nice enough, but he’s not interested in swimming. Most of the rest of the group goes off to splash about in the water. Joe lies out and closes his eyes. It’s hot, blazingly hot, but it’s nice to just lie in the warmth of the sun. He drifts for a bit, not quite asleep but lulled by the heat of the sun into a pleasant, dreamy state.

“You’re going to burn.” Joe opens his eyes. Gaz’s standing over him. 

Joe blinks up at him. “What?”

“I said you’re going to burn.” Gaz’s soaking wet. He leans over Joe. “Did you put on any sunscreen?” Water drips off of Gaz onto Joe’s chest. 

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry so much, mate.”

Gaz shakes his head and water flies everywhere. “You didn’t put any on, did you?”

Joe shrugs. “What’s it to you?”

Gaz rolls his eyes. “I’m going have to listen to you bitch after you get burnt, aren’t I? That’s what it is to me. I’m on holiday, I don’t want to deal with that shit. Now sit up.” 

“I do not bitch.”

“Ha,” Gaz scoffs, “Sure you don’t. Now sit up.” Then he gives Joe that look he sometimes gets. The look that says _do as you’re told right this minute or there’s going to be trouble._ Joe hates that look. He’s seen Gaz give it to his kids and when he gives it to him, it makes _him_ feel like a kid. He doesn’t like to be reminded that, sometimes, Gaz thinks of him as a kid, as someone he has to look after. He still does what Gaz’d asked, and sits up. 

He expects Gaz to toss him the sunscreen and for that to be that, but instead, Gaz sits down behind him and says, gruff and exasperated, “I’ll do your back.” 

“ _Aww_ , Gaz,” he says, twisting around, “enough, I don’t--”

Gaz smacks his shoulder. “Turn around and hold still.” 

The sunscreen and Gaz’s hands are both cold and Joe shivers a bit. “All right, Harty?” Gaz says, quiet and low, as he runs his hands over Joe’s shoulders. 

“Yeah, s’just, s’a bit cold. Feels good, actually, you know?” 

Gaz pushes his hand up along the back of Joe’s neck. He bows his head, lets Gaz work his hand all the way up his neck. “Yeah, bet so.” 

Gaz’s slow and methodical. He’s not just slapping the cream on. He’s rubbing it in, running his hands all along Joe’s back, over his arms and shoulders. It’s nice. Too nice.

When he’s done, he rests his hand in the middle of Joe’s back, leaves it there for an almost too-long moment. Joe waits and doesn’t say anything. “Turn around, eh,” Gaz says, low and rough. Joe turns and Gaz’s hand slides down his back and catches on the edge of his swim trunks. 

“What?” Joe says, breathless for no reason he can think of, “why?”

“I should,” Gaz leans forward, tube of sunscreen in his hand, “you should, I--”

Joe snatches the sunscreen. “Think I’ve got this. Thanks, though, for, you know.”

“Yeah,” Gaz says, standing up, “think I’ll just--just gonna go back, yeah, I’ll--” and walks back towards the pool. 

Joe quickly slathers his arms, face and chest then lies back down. He turns over onto his stomach and this time, when he closes his eyes, he falls asleep thinking of the slow, sure strokes of Gaz’s hands across his back. 

Johno and his mates show up halfway through the afternoon. Gaz’s gone off to lunch with Louise. They’d asked Joe to join them, come over to his lounger, hanging off each other, giggling and smiling, so happy together. Joe’d turned them down. Couldn’t see a place for himself between them. They hadn’t seemed bothered. They’d just waved and left him there at the poolside.

Johno’s gray and travel weary and looks totally out of place at the sunny poolside. His mates mill around behind him all looking similarly worse for wear. Joe nods at Mendum, then says, “Eh, Johno, mate, you look like crap.” 

Johno scowls. “You can piss right off.”

Joe laughs. He stands up and hugs him just to watch him squawk and protest. Johno squirms and pushes at Joe, all bony fingers and sharp elbows. “Get off me, you fucking mad bastard, off. Off!” 

Joe squeezes him harder. “Aren’t you glad to see me? I know you must’ve missed me something awful.”

“Fuck you,” Johno hisses and manages to shove Joe away. Joe lets him go. All of Johno’s mates are laughing by now, and Johno turns and scowls at them. “Fuck you all.”

Mendum ruffles his hair. “Someone needs a nap.” 

Johno bats at him. “Don’t, Christ, Dale it’s--” 

Mendum rolls his eyes and grabs Johno’s arm. “We’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”

Joe sits back down, resettling himself on the lounge. “Sure. Yeah. It’s gonna be great.”

Mendum smiles. “You know it.” He drags Johno - who’s still grumbling - off, and the rest of their mates follow, trailing in their wake.

Joe closes his eyes. Another nap in the sun doesn’t seem a half bad idea.

Gaz and Louise come and fetch him later in the afternoon. Gaz pokes Joe’s side. “Ow!” Joe says, opening his eyes, “Hey!” Gaz and Louise are both dressed to go out. They look so shiny and polished in the sun, a picture-perfect pair. Joe closes his eyes. 

Gaz pokes him again, harder, because he’s a bastard that way, and says, “All right, Harty, enough laying about, time to get up, maybe put on some clothes. We’re going to dinner soon.” 

“Ow!” Joe says again, “Don’t--” He opens his eyes and sits up. 

Gaz laughs. “Don’t be such a baby, could’a been worse, she,” he tips his head back towards Louise, “wanted to dump a glass of water on your face.”

Joe glances at Louise and she waves at him. “She wouldn’t have, would she?” He looks back at Gaz.

Gaz laughs. “Oh,” he says. He looks back at Louise and they share a conspiratorial smile. “She definitely would’ve. Now get up before I change my mind and let her.” 

***

There are so many people at dinner he can’t keep track of them all. Johno and all his mates, him and Gaz’s mates, Louise, Frank Lampard, who, he leans in and says to Gaz, “Did you know he was...”

Gaz shrugs. “He called, said he was here, dunno.” It’s nice to see him, sure; he comes with still more people. Joe’s not sure he recognizes half the people around the table. It’s good though, loud and fun, and the food’s fantastic, the drinks even better.

He’s got Johno on one side of him and Gaz on the other. Johno’s talking non-stop, chattering away about LA and the other places he’s been. Joe doesn’t listen, not really, but it’s nice, familiar. He’d never say it, but he’d almost missed having Johno about. It’s always a shock, the end of the season, the people you see all the time suddenly gone. He doesn’t miss them, not at first, but that never lasts. 

Johno elbows him. “Y’paying any attention or what?”

“Nah,” he says easily, “you talk too fucking much.”

Johno gapes at him. “Yeah, sure, me, I talk too much, you’re a fine one to...” He reaches around Joe and pokes at Gaz. “Harty says I talk too much, like he should talk.”

Gaz looks away from Louise and says, with a little smile, “He’s right, you never shut your mouth.” 

Joe laughs. “See, Johno, told you.”

“Fine,” Johno says, sulking, “like he’s gonna disagree with you. Gives you every fucking thing you want.” He pointedly turns away from Joe and starts talking to whoever’s sat next to him. 

Gaz nudges him and says in his ear, “What’s he on about?”

“Eh,” Joe says, “it’s Johno, who fucking knows.”

Gaz laughs. His head’s still dipped towards Joe’s and Joe can feel his breath against his neck. “Yeah,” he says, straightening up, pulling away from Joe, “that boy, dunno ‘bout him sometimes.” 

After dinner, they all go out. He starts off at Gaz’s side but eventually he gets caught up in the craziness of Johno and his mates and he loses track of Gaz. He doesn’t notice, not at first, but when he does, it’s not that he’s concerned or that he misses him or some shit, he just, he wants to find him. 

Joe finds him at one of the bars, shoulder to shoulder with Lampard, empty glasses littering the bar between them. For the first time since they arrived, Louise isn’t right at his side. If it were Johno with him instead of Lampard, it’d be just like normal, just another night out with the lads. Joe thinks, maybe, he likes those nights better. He barges between them, slings an arm around each of their shoulders. “All right then, what’s going on here, eh, mates?”

Gaz turns into him, his shoulder nudging Joe’s chest. “Harty! Harty, there y’are, was just--” He smiles brightly. “Was looking for you.” He tugs on Joe’s shirt. “Here you are.”

“Christ,” Joe says to Lampard, who’s watching them with an amused sort of expression, “What’ve you all been having?”

Lampard shrugs off Joe’s arm. “Nothing too, you know what,” he leans into the bar, signaling the bartender, “here, you have some too.” 

Gaz still has Joe’s shirt tangled in his hand and he tugs on it and says, “Yeah, Harty, have a drink.” It comes out a bit slurred. 

Joe takes his drink and hands Gaz his. He knows from the first swallow why Gaz is the way he is. “Christ.” He bolts his drink and puts the glass down. “You’ve been giving him rum?” Gaz drops Joe’s shirt and gulps his drink.

Lampard shrugs. “Yeah, and?” 

Joe shakes his head, shakes Gaz a bit too. “It gets him, fuck, I dunno, and it makes him sick.” 

Gaz pats his chest then clumsily runs his hand up Joe’s neck and pats his cheek. “S’fine, Harty, m’fine, ‘kay? Have another with me, ‘kay?” Joe smacks at his hand and ignores the way Lampard’s smirking at him.

“Louise,” he lies, “she’s looking for you.” 

Gaz straightens up and pushes away from Joe. “She’s, _shit._ ” He waves at Lampard. “I’m, gotta...”

“Yeah,” Lampard says good-naturedly, “Go on Gaz, Harty’ll keep me company.” 

Gaz frowns. “No.” He grabs Joe’s shirt again. “S’coming with me.” 

Joe shrugs. “Guess I’m going with him.” Lampard doesn’t laugh in his face but Joe gets the impression he really, _really_ wants to. 

He lets Gaz tug him through the crowd even though he’s not sure Gaz has any idea where he’s going. They skirt the edge of the dancing and Gaz turns to him and says, “Harty! Harty we should dance.” Normally, you can’t get Gaz to dance for anything, but, when he gets really trashed, all he wants to do is dance. Thing is, drunk or sober, Gaz can’t dance for shit. 

He tries to tug Joe into the dancing but Joe pulls him back. “No, hey, we’ll find Louise, she’ll dance with you, huh?”

Gaz smiles, if possible, even more brightly. “Yeah?”

Joe pats his shoulder. “Sure, mate.” 

Somehow they manage to find Louise, mostly because Johno notices them in the crowd and starts calling their names really obnoxiously loudly. Gaz goes straight to Louise and starts trying to get her to dance. She laughs and pushes at him, shaking her head. “Joe,” she says, giggling helplessly, “Joe, take him, would you? Please.” 

Joe pulls Gaz upright, away from her, and says, “Sure. Okay.”

Gaz turns toward him, stumbling over his feet. “Joe. Joe, she won’t dance with me.” He’s pouting like a kid denied a sweet. Then he brightens, gives Joe a sweet, guileless smile. “You’ll dance with me, won’t you Harty? C’mon.” He tries to move forward but he crashes into Joe. 

Joe keeps him on his feet and glances over his shoulder at Louise. “Please,” she mouths.

“Okay. Okay. C’mon then, let’s go.” Gaz smiles up at him, brilliant, like Joe’s giving him something spectacular, not just hauling his drunk ass onto the dance floor. His stomach clenches and he feels suddenly unsteady like the floor’s tipping under his feet. 

He hauls Gaz off to dance, lets him flail and sway and does his best to keep him on his feet. He seems to be having fun. He keeps telling Joe to dance and he’s drunk enough to just go along, to throw himself into it just to see Gaz smile at him, bright and happy and uninhibited. 

He’s not sure how long they stay out there but after a while Gaz sways forward, face white, and grabs Joe’s shoulder. “Harty,” he says, voice almost too low to hear over the noise of the crowd and the music, “think I’m gonna, fuck I’ma--”

It takes Joe a moment to get it. Fucking Lampard and all that fucking rum. “Shit, really?” Gaz nods and slaps his other hand over his mouth. “Fuck,” Joe says, “C’mon,” and starts manhandling Gaz through the crowd, hoping they actually make it somewhere before Gaz barfs all over someone’s shirt or shoes or some shit. 

He manages, somehow, to get them away from the crowds into the corridor he thinks the loo is in. “Joe. Harty.” Gaz pulls at him, tumbling them both against the wall. “Where’re we? Thought we was dancing, Harty, what’s...” 

“You were,” Joe says, “you said you were gonna...”

Gaz frowns and wrinkles his nose. “Gonna what?”

“Be sick.” 

“Oh,” Gaz says, “No, don’t think so.” 

Joe wants to shake him, except then, of course, he would absolutely be sick, probably all over Joe. “You sure,” he asks, because he’s not going to be dragging Gaz back here in a minute, next time he’s just going to let him be sick no matter where they are. 

Gaz nods. “Yeah. M’sure.” He smiles at Joe. “Were you gonna hold my hair or something? That’s sweet, Harty, really.” 

Joe gives him a little shake. “Or something. Was trying to keep you from barfing on someone’s shoes.”

Gaz smiles wider and tries to push off the wall. “So sweet, trying to take care of me, Harty.” Gaz lolls back against the wall. “Supposed to be the other way ‘round, though, isn’t it? Supposed to be me looking out for you.” 

“Don’t need looking after.”

“‘Course you do, you’re just a kid.” Gaz reaches out and fumbles his hand across Joe’s face. “Just a baby,” he slurs, “can’t even remember to put on sunscreen in the sun.” He starts to slide dangerously down the wall.

Joe catches him and hauls him back up. “Least I can stand up on my own.”

Gaz just smiles hazily and says, “Oops.” He laughs, giggles really, but before Joe can have a go at him for it, Gaz pulls him forward. “C’mere, c’mon, Harty, c’mere.” He’s pulling on Joe’s shirt, insistent and demanding. 

Joe tries to pull back but he’s pretty sure he’s all that’s holding Gaz up, so he can’t move far. Then Gaz tugs hard, sending Joe stumbling forward into him. He’s smiling, smug and satisfied, and he says, “There, that’s good, that’s--Harty, c’mon, I want--” and he kisses him. Well, he tries. His mouth lands half on Joe’s mouth, half on his cheek. “I want,” he says again, before Joe can react, “to, we never,” and he kisses him again. He doesn’t miss this time, plants his mouth square against Joe’s. It’s as sloppy and uncoordinated a kiss as Joe’s ever received and he doesn’t know whether to push him away or pull him closer

It’s Gaz, kissing him, and he wants to grab hold with both hands and let him. Before he can decide what to do, Gaz pulls away. “S’good? I wanted to, and we never--never--Joe--” The next kiss is slower, more deliberate, and Joe doesn’t think, he just opens his mouth and lets Gaz in. It’s still not great, too much tongue and Gaz’s clumsy with his teeth. 

They hadn’t kissed, Gaz’s right, at least Joe thinks so. He thinks he would have remembered but he can’t be sure. What he does remember of that night isn’t clear enough for him to be sure of anything. 

He loses himself in it for a moment, loses himself in Gaz’s greedy, sloppy kisses, the way he’s pushing against Joe, rolling his hips and rubbing against him. For a moment, he lets himself enjoy it and doesn’t think about why he shouldn’t. He knows it can’t last, he can’t let it last. The next time Gaz pulls away, he steps back. “Okay,” he says, “Gaz, enough, right?”

Gaz follows him forward. “Joe?”

Joe steps back. Lets go. Gaz sways but he stays on his feet.

“Joe?”

“We should,” Joe says, looking down at his feet, “You’re pissed, Gaz. Let’s just go. Get you back to Louise.” 

“Louise?” 

“Yeah, you know, your wife.” 

“Oh.” His whole face falls. “Louise. I, Harty, I--” 

“You’re pissed, it’s, let’s just, c’mon, let’s go.” He doesn’t (desperately does) want to put his hands back on Gaz, but he does. He hauls him away from the wall. “C’mon.”

He helps Gaz with his first few steps, then lets go. Gaz only needs a little steadying as they make their way back through the crowd. Right as they reach Louise, who’s still sitting where they left her, Gaz stumbles and Joe has to reach out quickly and catch him before he falls on his face. It leaves them pressed close together, his arm haphazardly slung around Gaz’s waist, facing Louise. 

Joe almost drops Gaz, wants to, but he can’t. “He, uh, “ he says rapidly, because Louise looks a bit dismayed, “think he’s had it, yeah?”

Gaz lolls into his side. “M’fine, really, Lou, s’fine.”

She smiles, thin and close-mouthed. “Think so, yeah.” It takes Joe a second to realize she’s talking to him, not Gaz. She stands up. “We should—Joe, could you just give us a hand?” 

Gaz’s still protesting, mumbling and unintelligible, in Joe’s ear. “I, ah, yeah, ‘course, what’ya need?”

She comes to Gaz’s other side. “Just help me get a taxi and I’ll...”

“Okay,” Joe says, “Yeah, can do that.”

They say their goodbyes, well, Louise does. Gaz doesn’t say anything and Joe just does his best to keep Gaz on his feet. 

As they start through the crowd, Louise asks, “Do you need a hand?” 

Joe hitches Gaz closer. “No. No, I’ve got’em. S’fine.”

Joe means to just get them safely into a taxi and go back in but after he pours Gaz into the back of the taxi, Louise reaches out and catches his arm. He startles badly at her touch. “I hate to ask,” she says, seemingly unfazed by his reaction, “but, ah, could you maybe, it’s just, I’ll never manage him on my own.”

He glances at Gaz sprawled haphazardly over the seat. The last place he really wants to be is trapped in a small, cramped place with the pair of them. He can’t say no, though, can’t refuse her, not when-- “Yeah, ‘kay. S’no bother. Really.” She smiles, wide and relieved, and she’s lovely, really she is. Joe looks away. He lets her get into the taxi first, so that she’s sat next to Gaz. 

Joe stares out the window, watches the city go by, and tries not to listen to Gaz and Louise, Gaz and _his wife_ , murmuring to each other. 

His phone buzzes. It’s Johno. _where u go?_ He fumbles out a reply. _helping gaz._ Johno texts back. _haha._

When they get to the hotel, they manage, between the two of them, to get Gaz up and out of the taxi. Gaz is no help at all. It’s a stumbling struggle just to get him through the lobby and into the lift. It takes both of them, their arms clumsily tangling together across Gaz’s back. 

At the door of the room, Joe says, “Can you, ah, have you got him from here,” because he can’t go in, can’t help Gaz’s wife put him in bed, can’t watch the two of them together like that. 

“Of course,” she says. She smiles at him, tired but grateful. “Thanks Joe, for everything, thank you.” She’s staring right at him and he wants to look away, wants, inexplicably, to scrub his hand across his face, his mouth, clean away the non-existent traces of Gaz’s mouth on his. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “Like I said, no bother.” 

She pats his arm and he has to fight not to flinch. “You’re a good mate Joe. I didn’t--” She stops, like she’s thought better of what she was going to say. “Thanks.”

He nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. He shifts Gaz’s mostly dead weight and leans him against the wall. Gaz grabs clumsily at him. “Harty, what? Where’re y’going?”

Joe steps away. “I’ll see you, yeah?” and walks away before either of them can say anything else. Without really thinking about it, he ends up back in the lift going down to the lobby. He leans back against the wall of the lift. The whole thing is mirrored, so he ends up looking right at himself. For a moment, he just stares. It’s daft, he knows, but he feels like everything he did with Gaz is written all over him for everyone to see. He closes his eyes and scrubs his hand across his face. He’s being ridiculous. Nobody can see. Nobody knows. Nobody except him and Gaz. That’s bad enough, though, isn’t it? That they know, that they did it. It’d be best if he forgot the whole thing. 

He knows just how to forget. He opens his eyes, looks down right away so he doesn’t have to look at himself, and fumbles for his mobile. He texts Johno. _where r u?_ Johno sends back the name of the club. He sends back. _don’t leave im coming._ He shoves his mobile back in his pocket and leans back against the wall. He closes his eyes. This is the best way. A few drinks and it’ll be like it never happened.

***

The next day, Joe sleeps well into the afternoon. As soon as he’s really awake, he scrambles on the nightstand for his mobile. Once he has it, he rolls over onto his back and goes through all the missed texts and calls. There’s a text from Gaz from hours earlier, _getting lunch you in?_ and another a bit after that, _u ok?_ He texts back _im fine c u later._

There’s a text from Johno, something about dinner later. He texts back _ok_ but doesn’t really look that closely at the message. 

He doesn’t wait for responses instead he leaves the phone on the bed and goes to take a shower. He’s not sure how long he spends in the shower. A long time. He just stands under the hot water. The back of his neck is a bit sunburned and the hot water hits it like pins and needles, but he doesn’t move away or turn down the heat. And he definitely doesn’t think about Gaz running his hand up his neck and rubbing in sunscreen. 

When he comes out of the bathroom, his mobile is ringing. He answers and puts it on speaker. “Hello.” It’s Johno. “Where the fuck are you? You said you’d meet us at five for dinner. You’re worrying Gaz.” Joe can hear other voices in the background, muffled and indistinct. 

“Fuck Gaz,” he snaps, “I’ll get there when I get there.” He hangs up before Johno can say anything else.

When he gets to the restaurant, Gaz gives him an odd, worried look which he ignores in favor of having a go at Johno’s really awful shirt. He can’t ignore Louise, though, when she asks, “You all right, Joe?”

“What? Yeah, ‘course I’m fine.” He even manages to smile at her.

He laughs and drinks his way through dinner and everything is absolutely fine. 

They go out after dinner, some place Lampard, who’d been there again at dinner, wants to go. Joe doesn’t care where they go. He just wants another drink.

He’d kind of meant to stay away from Gaz, but he ends up in the back of a taxi jammed between Gaz and Louise with one of Gaz’s mates on Gaz’s other side. 

Gaz chats with his mate the whole ride. He’s pressed right into Joe’s side, warm and solid, and, at some point, he absently drops his hand onto Joe’s knee. 

“So,” Joe says to Louise, desperate for a distraction, “uh, what’d you all do today?” 

She laughs a little. “Not too much. He,” she tips her head toward Gaz, “was in a bit of bad way this morning.”

Joe snorts. “Yeah. Imagine so.”

She shakes her head and her hair brushes against his neck. He shifts a bit, trying, futilely, to put some space between them. It just presses him more tightly against Gaz, who pats his knee. “S’the rum,” she says ruefully, “always the bloody rum. He shouldn’t but...”

“Yeah,” Joe says, startled into a laugh, “every fu-- every time.” 

She nudges him. “You don’t have to do that. I’ve heard the word before.”

“I, uh,” He ducks his head, feels a bit embarrassed. “Yeah, but, you’re--I--” 

She laughs. “You’re sweet.” Joe cringes and wishes he was somewhere else, wishes her knee wasn’t brushing his, wishes a lot of things. “But,” she continues, “you’re right. Every fucking time.” 

He can’t help but laugh. He likes her. Really he does. She’s funny and she makes Gaz smile and she’s never anything but nice to him. He wishes it were enough to change things, wishes it made him not want the things he wants. That’s not on her, though, that’s on him. 

“What’s so funny?” Gaz demands.

Joe glances at Louise. “Nothing,” they say in unison, which sets Louise off laughing. Joe laughs with her. 

They’re still laughing when they arrive. They spill out of the taxi. Louise first. She stumbles a bit, her heel catching on the curb. He’s right behind her and he can’t let her fall so he reaches out and steadies her. “Thanks,” she says, smiling up at him. Joe nods and drops his hands from her waist.

Gaz comes and takes her arm. “You all right?”

She nods. “It’s fine. My shoe, it just--Joe caught me.” 

Gaz smiles at him. “Thanks, mate.”

Johno arrives then, shouting across the street at them. It saves Joe from having to say anything else. 

When they go into the club, he sticks with Johno and his mates. The club is loud and crammed with people and it seems like it should be a good time. Johno’s animated and chattering a mile a minute. Joe stays by him for a while and lets him distract him, makes him buy him drinks. He stays away from Gaz, from Louise. 

They don’t end up staying that long, in the end, too crowded for some, so they move on. 

In the second place, Joe heads straight for the bar. He drags Johno along with him. Johno shoves his hand off his arm. “Christ, Joe, m’coming, don’t have to be so...”

Joe ignores him and goes ahead. He looks back after a moment but he’s lost Johno in the crowd. He keeps making his way through the crowd. He turns his head and catches a glimpse of someone who looks like Silva. He thinks, _no can’t be, he would have said_ , but he plows forward through the crowd anyway, calling, “Hey! Hey, Silva, that you?” He staggers back when the bloke turns and it _is_ Silva.

Silva smiles widely and waves. “Joe,” he calls, “Joe, hello! You are here! In Vegas. Hello!” He lurches forward and hugs Joe with enough force that Joe staggers back.

“Yeah. I’m here,” Joe says and hugs him back, tries to steady the pair of them. Silva’s pissed. Joe’s not sure he’s ever seen him like this. This could be fun. He straightens Silva up. “Not just me neither, Johno’s around here somewhere and--”

“Adam?” Silva interrupts, and his smile goes blindingly bright, “He is also here?” He looks around. “Where is?” 

Joe doesn’t take it personally, the way Silva lights up at Johno’s name; everyone knows Johno’s Silva’s favorite, everyone except, maybe, Johno. It doesn’t mean, though, that he can’t shake him a little and say, “Hey! M’standing right here, aren’t I? What am I then, eh? Nothing?” 

Silva looks stricken, in a way he’d probably never be if he weren’t so pissed. “No! No, of course, no. I am happy, very happy, for to see you also.” He gives Joe an enthusiastic, uncoordinated hug. He seems like a bit of a handsy, cuddly drunk. Joe’d never’ve guessed that. 

“Sure. Sure,” he says, patting Silva’s back, “Let’s go and find Johno for you then, shall we?”

“We can?” Silva asks, guileless and sweetly pleased. 

Joe tucks him under his arm. “‘Course we can. C’mon.” 

Johno had been right behind him in the crowd so he can’t be that far off. He starts dragging Silva back in what he hopes is the direction he came from. It only takes a moment to spot a glimpse of what looks like Johno’s hair and that awful shirt he’s wearing. “Johno,” he calls. He pitches his voice as loud as he can and hopes he can be heard over the music. “Hey! Johno, where are you?”

“You see?” Silva asks hopefully.

Joe squeezes his shoulders. “Yeah. Just hold a minute and--” They dodge around a pair of blokes singing along really loudly to the song currently blaring through the club and there’s Johno. He’s got his back to them. “Johno, hey! Hey there you are. Come on.” He gives Silva a shake. “Look who I found. You’ll never guess.” 

Johno starts to turn but he’s too slow for Joe’s taste so he grabs his arm, thinking to spin him about, but Johno bats his hand away. “Shit mate, no need to--” He stops talking. He looks completely gobsmacked. He’s staring right at Silva. Joe might as well not even be standing there. 

Joe doesn’t care for being ignored, no matter the circumstances, so he reaches out and smacks Johno’s arm. “I found Silva,” he says. Johno doesn’t even glance at him. 

“Hey Silva,” Johno mumbles with far less enthusiasm, frankly, than Joe was expecting given how shocked he’d looked a second ago. 

Silva, though, Silva practically vibrates with enthusiasm. He waves and says, “Adam! Adam, hello!” 

Johno, who still looks a bit shell-shocked, snaps with surprising vehemence, “You’re here. In Vegas.” Joe can understand being a little annoyed that Silva didn’t mention he was coming to Vegas, because, God, the things they could have gotten up to if he’d known, but Johno’s anger seems to be about more than that. 

Silva seems oblivious to all of it. He ducks out from under Joe’s arm and pretty well wraps himself around Johno. Johno looks dazed and still kind of mad, but he pulls Silva close and turns his face into Silva’s hair. 

Silva pulls back and kisses Johno’s cheeks. The second kiss catches the edge of Johno’s mouth, and he flushes. 

Joe lets them chat away for a few moments but he quickly gets tired of being left out. If you let them, the pair of them will get lost in their own little world. So, when he hears Silva asking if Johno’s having fun, he shoves Silva forward, right into Johno, and, says loudly, “Now he’s going to come have fun with us. Right Silva?” 

Johno still doesn’t look at him but Silva nods enthusiastically and says, “Of course, yes.”

Joe squeezes his shoulders. “Silva. Silva, come on, let’s get you a drink,” he says, because if Silva’s fun as pissed as he is already, Joe figures, the more he drinks, the more fun he’ll be, “and Johno, let’s get him a drink too.” Johno finally looks at him. Joe grins at him and reaches out to pat his cheek. It doesn’t really go well and Johno glares a bit. Joe ignores that and says, “He hasn’t had near enough to drink and we’re going to fix that, huh?” He leans over Silva’s shoulder. “You and me, we’re going to fix that, yeah?”

“Yes,” Silva says, with what Joe feels is an appropriate amount of enthusiasm, “we fix.” Johno looks less than thrilled. No matter. He’ll trail along after Silva regardless of what he wants. 

“Too right,” Joe says, and, just for fun, he smacks a kiss across Silva’s cheek. Silva laughs. “Let’s go,” Joe says. He lets go of Silva and heads in the direction of the bar. He doesn’t look back.

They do shots at the bar and give Silva stick for not telling them he was coming to Vegas. Johno and Silva have a whole conversation with a few words that Joe hasn’t a prayer of understanding. It’s almost a relief when Silva’s mates show up. Being around Silva and Johno often means you’re on the outside looking in. Joe hates that. 

Silva’s mates are loud and boisterous. Joe thinks he recognizes a few of them. He nudges Johno’s back and leans in to ask, “That’s Silva’s cousin, yeah? What’s his name?” 

“How should I know?” Johno snaps. Joe waits for Johno to move forward toward Silva, but all Johno seems to want to do is stare. Well, he can hang back here and stare, that’s his business, Joe thinks it looks more exciting in and amongst Silva’s mates. They look like they fancy a laugh and a drink, maybe more like several drinks. 

It turns out, he’s right, they do fancy drinks. Lots and lots of drinks. It’s all right for awhile, trying to have conversations with Silva’s mates, watching Johno sulk about not being the center of Silva’s attention. It gets old fast, though, he wants to move on. Do something else. 

It occurs to him that he should really take Silva to say hello to Gaz. He’s mostly been ignoring Gaz, sticking close to Johno, but, he figures, Silva should have the chance to say hello. He goes over to Silva, tugs on his arm and says, “Come on, Gaz is here, you’ve got to come say hello.”

“Gareth?” he says. Joe can never get used to people calling Gaz that. Louise does it too and he startles every time, wonders who she’s talking about. It’s like she’s talking about a whole different person than the Gaz he knows. 

He nods and tugs on Silva’s arm. “Yeah, ‘course. Come on.”

Silva doesn’t move. He’s staring straight at Johno. They’re having another one of those silent conversations. Johno shrugs. “Better go. Or, you know--” He smirks at Joe. Joe rolls his eyes.

Silva laughs. “Okay,” he says, turning towards Joe, “Okay, we see Gareth now, yes?” That’s all the permission Joe needs to start dragging him through the crowd. Johno trails along behind them.

As soon as he spots Gaz, he yells, “Gaz! Gaz, look who I have.” 

Gaz looks up from his conversation with Louise and smiles, broad and pleased, like he’s happy to see them. Probably, Joe thinks, he’s happy to see Silva. Gaz waves and calls, “Hey! You have Silva. Where’d he come from? Hey Silva, whatcha doing here?”

When they reach Gaz, Joe doesn’t think, he just automatically slings his arm around Gaz’s shoulders. To his surprise, even though Louise is right there, Gaz leans into him a bit. “I found him over there somewhere,” he says, gesturing out into the club. 

Gaz laughs. “Oh yeah?” Joe nods and Gaz shakes his head. “How’re you doing, Silva?”

Silva smiles brightly. “Good, fine, you?”

“I’m good,” Gaz says, shrugging out from under Joe’s arm and leaning down to give Silva a hug. Silva clings a bit and pats Gaz’s chest. Gaz smiles at him and gently sets him back. 

Joe figures, now that he has Silva over here, in and amongst his and Johno’s mates, he might as well introduce him around. He starts with Louise. She’s closest. Well, he means to, but Gaz interrupts, “Think I’ve got this one, eh, Harty?” He turns to Silva. “Silva, I’d like you to meet my wife, Louise.” He wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her against his side. It’s an easy, familiar move, an echo of what Joe’d just done with Gaz. “Lou,” he continues, “this is Silva.”

“Hello,” Louise says, holding out her hand, “Nice to meet you.” She laughs a little when Silva leans in and kisses her cheeks instead of shaking her hand.

“It is,” Silva says, slow and careful, the way he always is when he uses English with strangers, “nice, ah, to meet you also.” Louise seems charmed by the whole thing. Gaz just looks bemused. He catches Joe’s eye and shrugs like, _what can you do?_

“C’mon,” Joe says, grabbing Silva’s shoulder, “lots of people to meet, yeah?” Silva obligingly lets him pull him away. 

Johno hurries along behind them and nudges into Silva’s other side. “You can’t,” he hisses at Silva, “just go kissing people’s wives.” 

Silva laughs and says, “Adam, was saying hello only.” 

Johno mumbles, “Coulda just said it then, couldn’t you?”

Silva ignores him and turns to Joe. “Who next?”

Joe starts the whole round of introductions. He lets Johno do the ones for his mates. Mendum gives Silva an odd sort of look when Johno introduces them, and tries to drag Johno back when they move on. Johno shakes him off, though, and keeps going with them. Joe’s not really sure what to make of it. Johno doesn’t stick with them much longer, though, he slips away off in the direction of the dance floor. Joe ignores the way Silva tracks his movement and keeps on talking. 

He’s pretty sure Silva’s not really listening as they make their way through the last few introductions. It doesn’t really matter. He finishes up the last of the introductions and then takes pity on Silva. “He went to dance. What, do you say, Silva, do you fancy a dance?”

Silva smiles, quicksilver and bright, “I think so, yes. And you, Joe, you come also to dance?” 

Joe shoves him away. “Nah. Did enough dancing the other night. Now go on, go save Johno. He’s probably making a right fool out of himself out there.” Silva smiles again then slips away. 

For a while, Joe gets caught up in a debate with Lampard, about, of all things, music. Man has crap taste. Then he wanders back towards the bar and has a few more drinks with Silva’s mates. They’re not a bad lot. Fun. Good to drink with. They go off, to dance, Joe thinks, but, for all he knows, they could’ve said they were going off to the moon. He wanders back towards where he’d last seen Gaz. 

He finds him right where he’d left him. He’s bent over, whispering in Louise’s ear. He’s curved around her, his hand just above her hip, splayed across her side, and she’s pressed into him, hands on his chest. They’re swaying a bit, like they’re dancing to music only they can hear. It’s certainly not to the music Joe can hear, the heavy, pounding song reverberating through the club. Joe’s not interrupting that. Doesn’t particularly want to stare at it either. 

He turns towards the dancing and decides, instead, to try and find Silva and Johno, see what they’re getting up to. Except he gets a bit turned around, in the frenetic, gyrating mass of dancers. When he breaks free, he finds himself away from the action in a confusing mess of dark hallways and corners. He tries to make his way back but he’s just pissed enough that things are getting a bit hazy around the edges and he gets more and more turned around until he doesn’t have any clue where he is. 

When he hears the noise, low, murmuring and indecipherable but clearly pleading, he knows he should walk away, but he’s pissed and stupidly curious, so instead, he walks toward it and, to his complete shock, finds Silva and Johno after all. 

Silva has Johno pressed up against the wall and he’s kissing him, more than kissing him. “Whoa,” he says before he can think better of it, because he wasn’t exactly expecting this, “Hey.” Johno’s eyes snap open but Silva doesn’t stop whatever he’s doing. “Johno?” Joe manages, “Johno what are you--anyone could--” 

“Not,” Johno says, and, he can’t quite see what Silva’s doing to Johno, though he’s pretty sure Silva has his hand shoved in Johno’s pants, but, whatever Silva _is_ doing, it’s making Johno’s voice go shaky and hoarse, “Not if you--not if you stand there and make sure they don’t.”

It’s a terrible idea. Really it is. Johno looks so desperate, though, and Joe, well, maybe he’s just pissed and being stupid, but he figures _what the hell_ , he can help a mate out. “Okay. Okay.” 

He steps closer, he’s not sure why, just, he wants to be closer. He reaches out, to touch Silva’s back, maybe, or something. “No,” Johno snaps, and Joe stops. 

Silva stops too. “Adam?”

“It’s just Joe,” Johno says hurriedly, “it’s nothing just--”

Silva glances back. Joe resists the urge to wave. “Joe? You want Joe?” He doesn’t sound terribly pleased. 

Johno turns Silva’s face back. “No.” He kisses him. “No,” he says with ragged desperation, “just you, it’s nothing, please--” 

Joe takes a step back. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking, trying to touch Silva. Johno won’t share his chips; thinking he’d share Silva, it was fucking stupid. He’s not sure he even _wanted_ him to. He always wants things, though, that aren’t his to have. As he watches them, he can’t help but think about being pressed up against Gaz, can’t help but think about Gaz’s mouth on his. 

It’s a special kind of torture, watching them together, watching them murmur to each other, soft and deeply intimate, watching Silva give Johno everything he asks for. It doesn’t seem fair that Johno gets exactly what he wants and Joe, well, Joe gets to watch and wish for things he’ll never have. He should go, except he’d told Johno he’d stay. More than that, he’s transfixed. He can’t make himself look away. 

It doesn’t seem quite real. Like, maybe, he’d conjured them up in his haze of drunken confusion. He thinks he’d rather that than the reality of them, so achingly intimate together. It is real though, Silva pressing into Johno, Johno pleading with him, kissing him so desperately. Joe stares, too poleaxed, too slowed down by drink, to look away. He stares and _wants_ and it’s horrible because he’s never getting what they have. Not from Gaz. 

After they’re done, it only gets worse to watch. The way Johno automatically leans into Silva, the way Silva soothes him and holds him up, it’s intimate, so filled with caring. Joe can hardly bear it. This, Joe realizes, isn’t some drunken hookup in a dark corner. This is something else. 

Then, when Silva raises his hand to Johno’s mouth, and asks him to lick, it’s something else again. He’s never wanted Johno, never been attracted to him, but watching him lick across Silva’s hand, take Silva’s fingers into his mouth, he can’t stop himself saying, “Jesus fucking Christ,” and thinking, just for a second, about what else Johno might do with his mouth. 

Johno looks at him for a second but then Silva kisses him and Joe’s stuck, yet again, on the outside looking in, while they talk and touch and kiss. 

Silva pulls away from Johno and, before Joe really realizes what’s going on, he’s walking past Joe, reaching out to pat his stomach on his way by. “Thank you,” he says with a sly little smile.

“Yeah,” Joe manages, staring down at where Silva’d touched him, “yeah, sure, anytime.” Silva laughs and keeps walking. Silva, he realizes with something like awe, is kind of _mean_. Johno is, he’s pretty sure, hopelessly outmatched there. He glances up at Johno, who’s still leaning against the wall, looking dazed but also utterly and completely satisfied. He figures Johno doesn’t give a fuck. “I, um...” he says, still at a bit of loss.

Johno looks down and starts fumbling with his pants. “Um,” Johno says, voice hoarse and shaky, like he’s out of breath, “so, thanks and all that.” 

“Right,” Joe says automatically, “yeah sure.” Johno’s still fumbling at the fastening of his pants. It doesn’t look like he’s having any luck with it. Joe almost wants to laugh but, instead, he asks, figuring he’ll never have a better shot at getting the answer, “So, ah, you and Silva, so how long’s that been going on for?” Johno doesn’t answer, but he seems to have finally refastened his pants. “Johno?” Joe prompts. 

Johno looks up. “Ah, um, kinda for a while.” He tips his chin up, defiant, like he’s daring Joe to say something. It’s tempered, though, that defiance, by a befuddled, fond kind of smile. That’s for Silva, Joe’s sure, not for him. 

“Huh. Really?” Joe’s not all that surprised, well, he is, a bit, but not too much, all things considered. Thinking back, at the way the two of them took to each other right away, the way they were so close even when they could barely speak to each other. This makes a bit of sense out of all that. 

“Yeah, look,” Johno says, pulling his shirt down, “I’m just--I’m just going to head back.”

“Yeah, sure,” Joe says, “guess we should.” Johno’s still fiddling with this shirt. He looks thoroughly and completely mussed. “You look a total wreck, mate, like someone took you out and showed you a _really_ good time.” 

Johno’s expression goes panicked, which, truthfully, is pretty amusing. “Shit, really?”

Joe steps forward and smacks his shoulder. “Relax,” he says, “the lads will all just assume you went off with one of the girls you were dancing with. They’re not gonna think that Silva’s just had his hands down your pants.” He laughs, thinking about the look that knowing that would put on some of the lads’ faces. 

Johno scowls and shoulders his way past him. Joe laughs and watches him go. 

It’s different, after Johno’s gone, and he’s left there in the dark, alone, thinking about what he’d seen, what he’d thought about while he’d watched, what he’d wanted desperately while he’d watched. 

He shakes his head, hard, until he’s almost dizzy, until he almost thinks he’ll be sick. He should just quit it, should just let it go and make his way back. He takes one step forward, then another. He looks about and picks what looks like the direction he’d come from. He turns a corner and slams into someone. “ _Shit_ , sorry,” he says hurriedly, stepping back, “sorry, shit, I didn’t--”

“Harty.” It’s Gaz. Joe’s not sure if that’s better or worse than some stranger. “Joe. S’okay. S’just me, yeah?”

“Right,” Joe says, taking another step back, “just you. That’s all right then. What--” He doesn’t want to be here right now, alone in the dark with Gaz, thinking about-- “What’re you doing here?”

Gaz smiles. “Looking for you, wasn’t I?” he says, “You’ve been, you know, I don’t know, and I was--was just--” He shrugs. “Was looking for you, is all.”

“Well, ah,” Joe stutters, “um, here I am--I, ah...” 

“Hey,” Gaz says with a little frown. He steps closer and puts his hand on Joe’s shoulder. “You all right?”

Joe pushes his hand away. “Don’t.” He doesn’t want Gaz’s hands on him right now, not when just a moment ago he was thinking about how it felt to kiss him, not when just a moment ago he was wanting him there so he could do it again, so he could do _more_. 

“Joe?” Gaz says, soft and a little hurt, “Joe, mate, what’s going on?” 

“Nothing,” he says, looking at the floor, “S’nothing.” 

Gaz comes closer, puts his hand back on Joe’s shoulder. Joe should shove it away again but he doesn’t. “What’s going on, Joe?” Gaz says, soft and serious, “Tell me.” He squeezes Joe’s shoulder. “C’mon.”

Joe lifts his head. Gaz’s looking at him, his expression all earnest concern, like all he wants to do is fix Joe’s problems for him. Except _Gaz_ is Joe’s problem. And he’s right there, in Joe’s space, absently running his thumb up and down Joe’s arm. It’s too intimate, too close to what he’s seen him do sometimes with Louise. It just makes him want all the things he’ll never have. “Gaz,” he says, “it’s...” Gaz smiles encouragingly and Joe can’t-- He ducks his head and slides his mouth across Gaz’s. 

Gaz’s eyes flutter closed and, for just a second, he leans into Joe and opens his mouth under his. Then he pulls back. “We can’t,” he says, “Joe, you know we can’t.”

“You did,” he snaps. He’d meant to let it go, the kissing, chalk it up to Gaz being pissed and ignore it like he has everything else, but he can’t stop himself from flinging it in Gaz’s face. “You did.”

Gaz stills. “I--I what?” He looks completely baffled.

“Last night,” Joe says, ”you--” He stops because he shouldn’t have said it, shouldn’t have brought it up at all. He should know by now that it’s just best for everyone, him, Gaz, _Louise_ , to let it lie, to just pretend like it’s not there at all. 

“What, Joe?” 

Gaz looks determined, like he’s not going to rest until Joe answers him. So Joe forgets pretense and answers him. “You kissed me. You were so pissed you could hardly stand, but you kissed me.” 

“I--I--” Gaz still looks baffled, “Joe, I what?”

“You,” Joe says, “you just,” he leans down and presses his mouth to Gaz’s, “like that, you,” he kisses him again, “just like that.” 

“Joe--Joe we--” He’s leaning in towards Joe. Joe’s not sure he’s even aware he’s doing it. “We,” he repeats and licks his lips. He’s staring at Joe’s mouth. Joe kisses him again, a bit harder, a bit more aggressively, and Gaz resists for a moment, and then he doesn’t. It’s perfect, right until he pulls away again. “Joe,” he says desperately, “Joe, we can’t.” 

Joe knows that. He knows they can’t. He knows each and every reason why they can’t, why they shouldn’t, but just now he can’t remember any of them, can’t think about anything but kissing Gaz again, touching him. He pulls Gaz back. “Gaz,” he says, dipping his head to lick at Gaz’s mouth, “C’mon, just, c’mon.” He slides his hand down Gaz’s stomach, presses it to his crotch and rubs. Gaz makes a shuddering, gasping sound. “ _Please,_ ” Joe says, kissing him again, “ _Please_.” Gaz moans against his mouth and, for a second, Joe’s sure he’s giving in. 

Then Gaz steps away. “No. Joe, we can’t.” He sounds so calm, like a second ago he wasn’t making that low, pleading sound against Joe’s mouth. He’s right, though, and Joe, in that moment, Joe _hates_ him for it. 

“Right, ‘course not.” he grits out, “We, ah, should go back.” He shoves past Gaz, hard enough that Gaz stumbles. He doesn’t like to do that, use his size and strength to push people around off the pitch, but right now he just doesn’t care. He’s too tangled up in want and something dangerously close to anger and the way he can still taste Gaz in his mouth sticky and cloying and reminding him of everything he can’t have.

He stumbles his way back through the crowd. All he can think is that he has to get out of there. He wants to be somewhere else--anywhere else--as long as it isn’t here. Gaz is somewhere behind him but Joe doesn’t look back. He just keeps going forward until he spots Johno at the bar. Mendum’s leaning against the bar next to him. 

Joe goes right up to them. “I’m bored,” he says, “So fucking bored. I’m bored with this place.” Johno’s staring at him like he’s gone mad. Maybe Johno’s right. He glances at Gaz. Gaz looks shell-shocked, but Joe doesn’t have time for that. Doesn’t want to think about that. “I’m so done with this place, Gaz. Let’s go somewhere else. There’s this place, my mate told me all about it, said I absolutely had to go while I was in Vegas. It’s called--” He can’t remember the name. Can’t think right now. Not about this. Not about anything. So he just keeps talking. If he’s talking he’s not thinking. “Shit. What’s it called?” He turns towards Gaz, because that’s what he does, he doesn’t think about it, he just does it, automatic, because Gaz is always there, by his side, always giving him just what he needs (except when he doesn’t). “Gaz, I told you about it, what was it called?” Gaz shrugs and Joe’s not used to this, not used to Gaz disappointing him (except in the way he’s always disappointing him). “Crap, Gaz, you’re supposed to remember this shit. Whatever, though, I’m bored, really, let’s try somewhere else, who’s in? Huh?” He looks back at Johno. “Johno, you in? Tell me you’re in.”

Johno shrugs. He’s still staring at Joe like he thinks he’s gone mad, but he says, “Sure. Yeah. Why not?”

Joe smiles at him. There are some things you can always count on Johno for - some other things not so much - but things like this, Johno’s always good for them. “Good. Good. I knew I could count on you.” He turns to Gaz. “Well?” he asks without really looking at him.

Gaz doesn’t say anything. Joe waits. Waits for him to say he’ll have to ask Louise. Waits for him to say no, to run as far away from Joe as he can, as fast as he can. “Sure,” he says finally, “Yeah, if you want.” 

Joe’s relieved but, at the same time, part of him wishes Gaz hadn’t said that. He doesn’t want Gaz to be giving him the things he wants, not now, not if he’s trying to make up for before, not if this is some kind of apology, some attempt to placate him. But it’s Gaz, and, really, Joe always wants him around, even if they have to pretend. He nods. “I do want.”

“All right,” Gaz says and he smiles at Joe like everything’s fine, like everything’s normal, and it’s almost convincing. Joe turns away from him and goes off to persuade more people to come with them. As far as he’s concerned, the more people the better. 

He convinces everyone but Silva. He and Gaz say their goodbyes to Silva then Silva goes to say goodbye to Johno. They linger together, Silva and Johno, too long for just a goodbye. Joe doesn’t really want to stand around and watch them be, well, be the way they always are together. It looks like so much _more_ , now that he knows what he knows, and he can’t watch it, not right now.

He turns to Gaz and that, that’s worse, because he doesn’t know what to say. Gaz smiles, tentative and close-mouthed, but he doesn’t say anything either. “So, ah,” Joe says, because saying something, anything, has to be better than this peculiar strained silence between them, “sure you don’t remember the name of that place?” 

“I, ah,” Gaz says, shaking his head, “sorry mate,” he reaches out like he’s going to pat Joe’s arm, but then he drops his hand, “really don’t.” 

Joe takes a step back. “Whatever,” he says, looking out into the crowd, “Doesn’t matter. We should--should just go.” 

“Johno’s still,” Gaz murmurs, “you know.”

Joe looks over. Johno’s leaning down, talking right into Silva’s ear, and Silva’s smiling up at him. “Christ,” he says, “enough. I’ma just go--” He gestures towards Johno.

“Yeah,” Gaz says, “You get Johno, I’ll--I’ll just go get, um, go get--” He stops, then starts again, and it sounds like the words are choking him, “I’ll just go get Louise and them. All right.” He’s gone before Joe can answer him. 

By the time Joe makes it to Johno’s side, Silva’s gone. Johno’s staring after him, a strange, lovesick sort of a look plastered all over his face. Joe slings his arm around his shoulders. “Enough of that. You’re making me sick.” 

Johno elbows him, kind of hard, and says, “Shut it, Harty.”

“Oi,” Joe says, “less of that, you ungrateful git.” He ignores Johno’s indignant spluttering. “Now c’mon, we’re going.” 

“Right,” Johno says, shaking off Joe’s arm, “Whatever.” 

In the end, because Joe can’t remember the name of the club, no matter how hard he tries. He even tries calling his mate, but he doesn’t pick up - they end up in the nearest place that someone thinks look interesting. Honestly, Joe doesn’t care. He goes straight for the bar and has a drink. Then he has another and another. If he has enough, he figures, this will be fun again. He’ll forget about kissing Gaz, forget all the things that tangle and twist around that, and it’ll just be another night out with his mates. 

Gaz stays well away. Joe ignores that--ignores him--and keeps drinking. Johno stays with him for awhile, matching him drink for drink, but eventually, he puts his head down on the bar and slurs, “Harty, Joe--Joe, can’t--fuck--” He tries to stand up but he lists to the right like he’s going to tip over. Mendum’s there at his side straightening him up and giving Joe a sharp look. Joe ignores them both and orders another drink. He orders more than one drink. 

Mendum hauls Johno away and Gaz comes to take his place. Of course, he’d choose now to stop ignoring Joe. He looks at Joe, all concerned and shit. Joe isn’t having it. He shoves one of the drinks at him and forces a smile. “Here Gaz, drink up.” 

Gaz takes the drink and stares at it. Joe downs his drink and waits. “Joe--” 

He grabs the drink back. “Well if you’re not gonna.” He bolts it. The room spins a bit, but it’s fine. Everything is fucking fine--fucking fabulous. “Ta mate.” Gaz reaches out like he’s going to put his hand on Joe’s arm. Joe spins away. He’s not having that either. “Think I’ll just--just gonna dance. You wanna, Gaz, huh? Wanna come dance with me again?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer; he just goes. The room stops spinning and he makes his way through the crowd. He crashes into this girl. She’s blond and fairly fit. She laughs when he bundles into her. “Hey,” he says, “sorry, didn’t mind where I was going.” She giggles and says something like where’s he from, she loves his accent. He ignores that and says, “Wanna dance?”

She giggles some more and says, “Yeah, sure.” She grabs his hand and he lets her lead him towards the dancing. 

From the way she presses against him and puts her hands on him, he thinks she’d be up for more than dancing. He considers it, thinks fleetingly of Johno pushed up against the wall pleading with Silva, wonders if she’d be up for that. Wonders if she’d let him steal her away into a dark corner and let him fuck her right there--just hitch her up against the wall and fuck her. 

She’s petite and blond and pretty. Everything he likes. For a sharp, glittering second, he remembers Gaz and the sound he’d made when he’d put his hand on him. He shakes his head and looks down at the girl. She’s blurry, or maybe everything is. It would be good, he thinks dizzily, fucking her, sure it would, but he thinks he’d rather have another drink. He spins away from her and doesn’t think, not at all, about what would be even better than having another drink. She says something, but he doesn’t look back. 

He whirls his way through the crowd and stumbles clear of the dancing. He stops for a moment and tries to figure out where he really is, where he’s going. He doesn’t see Johno or Mendum or any of his mates. He doesn’t see Gaz. Not that he’s looking. No matter, really - he thinks he’d rather a drink than a conversation. 

The bar is jammed, but he’s never had a problem making his way through crowds. Soon enough he has a drink. The bartender’s pretty and blond like the girl from before. She smiles at him when she gives him his drink and leans closer than she really needs to. He smiles back more out of habit than anything else. He stays there for a while, through three, maybe four, maybe even five drinks. He’s not keeping track.

When Gaz finds him, he has to blink a few times because there’s two of him. “Gaz, Gaz,” he says, “you want a drink?” At least he thinks that’s what he says. It doesn’t sound quite right. 

“We’re going,” Gaz says, clamping his hand around Joe’s wrist.

Joe jerks his wrist away. “No. No don’t think so. Have a drink, eh Gaz? Come on.” 

Gaz doesn’t answer him. _Fuck him,_ Joe thinks, and turns back towards the bar. He tries to order more drinks but the pretty, blond bartender smiles at him and says, “Listen to your friend, huh? Maybe it’s time to go.” He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like the way she says it or the way she looks at him with what seems like pity. Fuck her too.

He turns back towards Gaz. “Let’s go someplace else, where you can fucking get a drink, ‘kay?” 

Gaz grabs him, wrapping his arm around his waist. “We’re going,” he says in that tone he uses sometimes, on the pitch and in the dressing room, with his kids, the one that no one argues with. Gaz starts walking, dragging Joe with him. Joe stumbles but Gaz catches him, hauling him close to his side. Gaz’s hand gets tangled in Joe’s shirt and his palm skates across Joe’s stomach. 

Joe pulls away or tries. “Can’t, s’no good, you said, Gaz, can’t--” He feels his knees buckle and the room spins and blurs around him.

Gaz hauls back up. “C’mon, Joe, put your arm--” He tugs Joe closer and urges Joe’s arm around his shoulders. 

Joe hazily thinks _Gaz said they couldn’t, said no._ “No,” he says, “you said--”

Then Johno’s there and he looks worried, Joe doesn’t know why he’d be worried. Can’t figure it out. Louise is there too, just behind Johno, peering around him at Joe. She looks worried too, more than Johno, it’s written all over her face. He wants to tell her she shouldn’t worry, not for him, she should save her worry for people who haven’t-- “Don’t,” he starts to say, “shouldn’t...” 

Gaz interrupts him. “Johno, could you come give us a hand, eh?” 

Joe struggles a bit. “M’fine, can stand, s’fine...” 

Gaz laughs and says, his tone bitterly unamused, “If I let go, you’ll fall straight on your face but yeah, you’re fine. Perfectly fine.” 

Joe thinks to protest but just then the room spins a bit. Johno’s there, on his other side, wrapping an arm around his waist, and the room slows down, comes back into focus. “Christ, Harty,” he mutters, “what’s with you?” 

They stumble past Louise and she and Gaz have a hushed conversation. They leave her there and keep going. “What about,” Joe tries to ask, “she’s just, what...”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Gaz says, dragging him forward, “just c’mon.” 

***

All Joe knows when he wakes up is that he’s going to be sick, like, right now, probably on the floor, possibly on the bed, because there’s no way he’s making it to the toilet. He rolls over and his stomach lurches. He can feel everything start to come up. Someone puts his hand on Joe’s head and says, “Over here, come on Joe.” It’s Gaz. He guides Joe’s head over the side of the bed just barely in time for him to be sick. Into a bin, he notes blearily, not onto the floor. 

He’s sick for what feels like forever and, just when he thinks he’s done, there’s more. This goes on for a while. Gaz stays with him, stroking his hair and rubbing circles on his back. When he’s finally--finally--done, Gaz helps him roll back over. 

Joe flops back onto the pillows and closes his eyes. Going back to sleep seems like an excellent plan, or, barring that, maybe he’ll just die. Dying sounds very appealing. “Feel better?” Gaz asks.

The best Joe can manage in response is a garbled “Nngh.” 

Gaz laughs softly. “Guess not.” 

Joe kind of hates him, except he doesn’t, because without him he would have been sick all over the bed. And, instead of going back to sleep he’d, well, he might have gone back to sleep regardless, given the way he feels, but probably--maybe--he’d have tried to clean up first. He tries again to speak and manages to say, “Sleep, ‘kay.”

The mattress dips a bit and he can feel Gaz move closer. “Water first, come on.” He attempts to lever Joe up into a sitting position. Joe doesn’t want to go and he doesn’t want any water. The thought of it makes him feel a bit ill. 

“No, Gaz, leave off--” Gaz ignores him and just keeps pulling him up. Joe’s not really in any fit state to stop him, so up he goes. He opens his eyes and glares at him. “Hate you.”

Gaz smiles. He reaches across him and grabs a glass of water off the nightstand. “Not the impression I got last night.” It seems like the sort of thing that ought to be a joke but even in his current state Joe can sense something a bit off in the way he says it. Like he’s trying too hard to make it a joke, to make it funny. 

Joe tries to remember last night and all he gets is, well, nothing, except maybe-- “Silva?”

“What?” Gaz says.

Joe squints at him. “Tell me, is Silva in Vegas?”

Gaz looks at him a bit queerly and says slowly, ‘Yeah. Yeah, he is. Just how much of last night do you remember?”

“Um, Silva and--” Joe tries again to remember. All he gets is a brief flash of Johno staring at him over someone’s shoulder, _Silva’s shoulder._ “Fuck.”

“What?” He shakes his head, which is a bad idea because his stomach lurches and twists alarmingly. “Joe?”

“Nothing, just nothing, I’m gonna go back to sleep, ‘kay?”

Gaz leans in. “Water first.”

Joe bats at him. “No, can’t--”

“Yes,” Gaz says firmly, “you can.” He hands Joe the glass. “Small sips.”

Joe manages maybe half the glass. “Now can I sleep?” 

He holds out the glass and Gaz takes it. “Yeah, yeah, go on then.” 

Joe squirms gingerly down and settles himself on the pillows. “You don’t have to stay, you know? Go on back to Louise, I’ll be okay.”

Gaz laughs. “Yeah. Sure you will. Sleep. Louise knows where I am.”

He doesn’t fall asleep right away. He drifts in and out. 

Gaz’s phone rings. It’s Louise. Joe recognizes the song. In the dressing room, the lads give Gaz loads of stick for it, but Gaz always smiles and says, unembarrassed but a bit sheepish, _she picked it and I like it._ He never slags Louise off in front of the lads, not really, not for a laugh, the way some guys might. He complains a bit, sometimes, but it’s mostly good-natured. 

He hears Gaz say hello but he doesn’t try and follow the conversation. The low murmur of Gaz’s voice lulls him. He’s almost asleep when he hears his name. “He’s okay,” Gaz says, “sick, you know, actually quite sick. Like, remember that time...” He doesn’t finish the thought, just laughs quietly, like, maybe, Louise had finished it for him. “Just like that,” he says, “Maybe a bit worse actually. He’s all right, though, I think. He’s asleep again.” He laughs again. “Yes, Lou,” he says with fond exasperation, “I made him have some water. You only reminded me about a hundred times.” 

It’s odd, thinking of Louise looking out for him like that, he doesn’t know that he likes it, knows he doesn’t deserve it.

Gaz starts talking about something else and Joe drifts away again. He catches the odd word here and there. Not enough so that he can really follow the conversation. It’s okay, though, he’s not trying to follow. The sound of Gaz’s voice is so familiar and it’s comforting. 

He hears a name, one of Gaz’s kids. He doesn’t think about it much, the life Gaz has outside of football, away from Joe. He knows why that is, knows why it’s easier for him to pretend that part of Gaz’s life doesn’t exist. But then, whenever he’s reminded of it, it always twists him up, reminds him that he’s no right to want the things he wants from Gaz.

Joe doesn’t dwell on it, though, especially not now, half awake and barely aware. Gaz’s gone quiet. Maybe he’s hung up, maybe not. Joe slips into sleep before he can figure it out. 

When Joe wakes up again, he thinks, for a second, that he’s going to be sick again. He tries to breathe through it, deep breaths, in and out, until he doesn’t feel like he’s about to gag. “Joe?” Gaz says, voice low and soft, “Are you...” He’s still here, with Joe. Joe’s surprised.

He opens his eyes, blinking into the bright sun spilling in through the window. He doesn’t see Gaz. He turns his head, slow and careful, and there’s Gaz, sitting propped against the headboard. He has his mobile in his hand but he’s not looking at it. He’s staring at Joe. “Hey,” Joe manages. His voice sounds ragged, utterly destroyed. 

Gaz smiles, open and sweet. “Hey.” He gently ruffles Joe’s hair. “Feeling any better?” He leaves his hand on Joe’s head.

Joe’s not sure. He still feels like he might be sick at any second and his head is pounding. He closes his eyes. “Guess so, for the minute, at least.”

Gaz scritches his fingers through his hair. It feels good. Dulls the pain pounding through his head. “That’s good. You tell me, huh, if you’re gonna, y’know...” 

Joe tries a nod. “Mmhmm.” 

Gaz trails his fingers down his neck, draws them along Joe’s nape, and presses lightly against the strip of sunburned skin just underneath Joe’s hair. “I missed a spot.” He sounds more displeased than Joe thinks is really warranted. He’s about to tell him that it’s no big deal but then he presses harder and says, “Does it hurt?” 

The press of Gaz’s fingers makes his skin burn. It’s a sore, achy kind of a burn that skirts the line between hurt and something else, something that makes his skin itch. He wants _more_ of it. He wants him to press harder, to dig his nails into Joe’s skin, to scratch them across the burned nape of Joe’s neck and then soothe the inevitable hurt with his mouth. He turns his head, trying to force Gaz’s hand away. “Yeah,” he says, “it kind of does, do you mind?”

Gaz’s not so easily dislodged. He feathers his fingers across Joe’s nape. Joe shudders. “I’m sorry,” Gaz says, “I should have been more careful.” 

“It’s,” Joe says, forcing the words out, “fine, really, just a little sunburn, yeah?’

Gaz stills his fingers. “Yeah. Just a little sunburn.” His voice has changed, gone a bit strange. 

He’s thinking of sitting up, anything to get Gaz’s hand off him before he does something he’ll regret, when Gaz’s phone buzzes. Gaz takes his hand away. He snorts. “Who’s it?” Joe asks.

“S’Johno.”

“What’s so funny?” 

“He wants to know if you’re dead.”

Joe rolls onto his side so he can see Gaz. “What do you mean he wants to know if I’m dead.” He snatches Gaz’s phone. “Not yet. What do you mean not yet?” 

Gaz just laughs. “What do you think?”

Joe tosses his phone at him. “Fuck you.” He scrambles around for his own phone. 

“What’re you doing?” 

“Calling Johno.” 

“What? Why?”

“Dunno,” he says, hitting call, “just wanna.”

It takes several rings before Johno picks up and Joe almost hangs up, then Johno’s there, laughing and saying, “Hey Joe.”

“Johno,” he says, “Johno are you fucking laughing at me?”

Johno, still laughing, replies, “At your shit taste in music.”

“Fuck you,” Joe snaps, mildly insulted, Johno’s got no room to talk when it comes to music. “I have great taste in music.”

“Uh-huh.” He’s finally stopped laughing but he still sounds amused. “Sure. How you feeling, mate?” He actually sounds like he cares. He’s a soft touch, Johno, always has been. 

“Eh,” Joe says, “you know.”

Gaz snorts. “Come off it. Tell him you’re sick as a dog.”

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” Joe says, half to Gaz, half to Johno, “So I was a little bit sick, yeah?”

“Yes, you were,” Johno snaps, “on my shoes,” which, okay, which Joe doesn’t remember at all. 

Gaz snorts again and leans in to say, “On more than your shoes, mate.” 

Joe ignores that in favor of saying, “You, you deserved it. You ruined my shoes,” which Johno had in Scotland, he’d had to bin them, they were so completely ruined, “I loved those shoes.” 

“You,” Johno says unsympathetically, “have more shoes than most girls I know.”

“Whatever,” Joe says dismissively, “like you know any girls.” He just means it as a throwaway comment, really, but it makes him think of that flash of memory, of Johno looking at him over Silva’s shoulder. “So,” he says, “tell me something, Johno, is Silva there with you? I can’t really remember--”

Johno cuts him off. “Silva?” He sounds a bit panicked. “No, he’s not, Joe, what...”

Joe interrupts. He hadn’t really meant to panic Johno like that. “Just, I don’t really remember much of last night.” He really doesn’t. “It was a good time, though, right?” He’s pretty certain of that. It must’ve been. “But you and Silva, that I--”

“He’s not here,” Johno says, his voice low and flat.

“Oh. Huh. But, like, you and him, you’re...” He trails off and hopes Johno’ll fill in the rest, all the things he’s forgotten, the things he’d drunk away.

“Yeah, we’re--” Johno stops. “We’re, yeah.” He still sounds a little panicked, a touch unsure, and Joe doesn’t want that, well, not the panic at least - there’s nothing he can do about Johno’s insecurities. 

“Huh, okay, that’s cool, just, you know, it’s cool.” 

There a pause, then Johno says, “Right, that’s--thanks.” He says it with a sincerity that Joe doesn’t really know how to handle. 

“Should have guessed,” he says, trying to deflect, “the way you are around him.”

“What?” Johno sounds startled, but at least he’s not panicked or thanking Joe again. “Whatever. Look, I’m just leaving to have lunch. I’ll--I’ll talk to you later,” and he hangs up. 

Joe shakes his head, looks over at Gaz and says, “Didn’t even let me say goodbye, no manners, that boy.” Normally, something like that makes Gaz laugh and make unflattering remarks about Joe’s manners but he’s just staring at Joe. “What?” Joe asks.

“Johno and Silva? Really?” 

Joe tosses his phone aside and flops back onto the pillow. “Yeah. Guess so.”

“Huh.” Gaz looks a bit poleaxed.

Joe nudges him with his foot. “Oh, c’mon, the way the two of them are together, you’re not actually surprised are you?”

“Yeah,” Gaz says, wondering and a bit skeptical, “I guess, but really?”

Joe can’t get comfortable on his back so he rolls carefully over onto his stomach. “Yeah. Really. Pretty sure I caught them at it last night.”

Gaz pokes him. “Pretty sure? Do you remember _anything_ from last night?”

Joe pushes at him and misses. “Shut up. So what.” He buries his face in the pillow. 

Gaz pokes him again. “Nothing?” He asks with a strained, odd incredulousness. 

Joe tries, for a moment, to remember, but really all he’s got is Silva and Johno tangled together. He shakes his head. He hopes he didn’t do anything too spectacularly stupid.  
“Gaz,” he mumbles into the pillow. He peeks up at him. “Gaz, you’d tell me if I’d done anything really, you know, stupid.”

“Sure, ‘course I would.” 

It’s about the least convincing attempt at reassurance Joe’s ever heard. He buries his face in the pillow. “What did I do?”

“Nothing.” Gaz pauses. The longer he stays quiet the twitchier Joe gets. Finally he says, “Nothing any worse than what I did the other night.” 

Joe bolts upright. Not the best move really, given his headache and still-queasy stomach. Gaz is very studiously not looking at him. “What did I do, did I--” Gaz glances at him and then looks away again. “Gaz, what did I do?”

Gaz turns back around, lurches forward and clumsily presses his mouth to Joe’s. “That’s it,” he says, his voice curiously flat, “That’s all it was.” He waits a beat then leans back in and does it again. “That’s it, Joe, just that.”

Joe thinks he’s going to be sick. His stomach roils and twists, sour and uncomfortable, and he scrambles away from Gaz. “I-- _fuck_ \--” He leans over the side of the bed, over the bin, and gags, but nothing comes up. 

“Shit, Joe, _Joe._ ” Gaz hovers, but he doesn’t touch him. “I didn’t, fuck are you all right?” 

“Yeah,” he manages, “Yeah.” He pushes himself up. He swallows, which is a mistake, because all he can taste is sick and his throat aches. “That’s really all?” He can’t quite remember, it’s like something just outside his line of vision, like that moment before a corner swings in when he knows it’s coming but can’t see it yet, there’s something--something he’s remembering. Then it’s there, the memory, jumbled but technicolor bright, him putting his hands on Gaz, pushing himself on him, the sound Gaz’d made before he’d pulled away. Then he remembers Louise, her expression worried and pinched, peering at him around Johno’s shoulder, and he gags again. He leans over the side of the bed and tries to breathe through it. Nothing comes up. “That wasn’t it. Gaz, _fuck_ , I’m, did we? Did I, _shit_...” 

Gaz touches him then, helps him up with gentle, careful hands. He turns him so they’re looking straight at each other. “We didn’t, Joe, not last night, okay? It wasn’t--it wasn’t like before, not like in--” _In Scotland._ During that ultimately disastrous jaunt to Scotland when they’d, they’d gotten pissed out their minds and they’d--

The memory of it is disjointed and blurred. Joe remembers the feel of the floor, hard and unforgiving against his knees, the taste of Gaz on his tongue. In the morning, his jaw had ached. He remembers Gaz’s weight pressing him into the bed, Gaz’s hand over his mouth while he worked his hand over Joe’s cock. He’d kept whispering in Joe’s ear, telling him to be quiet. Joe remembers the heat of Gaz’s palm against his face--the taste of it, salt and sweat and soap. 

“Gaz, God, _Gaz_ I didn’t--” They’ve never talked about it. Until Gaz’d kissed him the other night, he’d assumed Gaz didn’t remember it. “I didn’t think you, that you um, you know, remembered.”

“I--yeah.” He looks away. “I do.” 

“Why--why didn’t you ever say?” 

“It, I don’t know, just--” He shakes his head. “What’s there to say?” He looks back towards Joe but he doesn’t actually look at Joe. “And, uh, I wasn’t sure you, you know...”

“Oh.” Joe hadn’t really ever considered that. “I, um, well I do, obviously, I--” He’s a sudden, terrible thought. “I didn’t--you wanted to, right? I didn’t, I know I can be--but, Gaz, Gaz, you, you did right?”

“I do--did. I _did._ ” He pauses and this look passes over his face, concern maybe, or something like it. “You, ah, you did too, right Joe?” There’s a hint of panic in his voice. “I didn’t, you didn’t just because I--” He stares at Joe, his expression starkly panicked, maybe a touch ashamed

Much as Joe doesn’t like to see that look on Gaz’s face, he still feels a sudden, odd relief. He’d always assumed the only reason Gaz touched him was because he was pissed and Joe was willing. He’d never actually considered that Gaz might just want to touch him. He’d always thought it was just him wanting Gaz.

“‘Course,” he says, “Yeah, I, ah, yeah.” He’s not really sure, doesn’t remember it all that clearly, but he can’t imagine _not_ wanting to. 

Gaz slumps and, for a second, looks utterly relieved, then he tenses and looks away. “But Joe--Joe it was, we--I, I’m...” _Married._

“Yeah,” Joe says, “I know,” and part of him cares and part of him doesn’t. 

They sit, in silence, just staring at each other. Joe feels like he should say something else but he doesn’t know what else to say. Maybe Gaz’s right, maybe there’s nothing to say.

“Look,” he finally says, “I’m just, I think I’m gonna take a shower, all right?” He needs to be away from Gaz right now and, honestly, he could use the shower. He pushes himself up off the bed.

Gaz does the same. He’s staring at Joe. “Do you, I mean, should I...” He fiddles with his fingers and looks down at the floor. 

“Go back,” Joe says carefully, “to Louise, okay?”

Gaz flinches. “Yeah,” he says, voice subdued, “okay.” He makes his way over to the door. He turns, hand on the doorknob, and says, “Text me, all right? Let me know what you want to do, you know, later.”

Joe nods. “Sure.” Gaz leaves, gently shutting the door behind him, and Joe’s left alone in the room. He stares, for a moment, at the bed, at the rumpled bed sheets, then turns and heads for the bathroom.

 

In the shower, he leaves the water a shade too cold and scrubs himself hard and fast. They’re supposed to distract him, the cold water, the harsh rub of the washcloth across his skin, but they don’t. All he can think of is Gaz.

When he’d first meet Gaz, he’d never imagined it would end up this way. He’d been attracted to him, though, when they’d first met. Not in any great way just, his first thought on seeing him up close, being properly introduced, was _nice, very nice._ Gaz had been polite, friendly even, but that had been it. 

Joe forgot about it, mostly, that little spark of heat he’d felt when he’d first shaken Gaz’s hand, then, later on, once he was around Gaz all the time, once he’d really gotten to know him, to appreciate his sense of humor and his sure, rock solid steadiness, that little spark ignited into an almost desperate desire. It was (and is) stupid and hopeless but it didn’t go away no matter how he tried to force it gone. Then he gave up trying and that had ended with him on his knees in a Scottish hotel room. 

He should have tried harder, he knows, to will away his longing because that night in Scotland just left him wanting more. Worse, it had left him hope, because, for a moment, Gaz had wanted him back. 

There’s no point dwelling, though, not even now that he knows that Gaz, no matter what he says, _still_ wants him back. They’ll play pretend again, like they did before, because that’s best for everyone, for him, for Gaz, for _Louise_. 

He turns the water ice cold and tips his face into the spray. Lets the blast of cold water shock him back to reality. 

When he goes back into the room, Gaz is still gone and, even though he’d watched him leave, he’s still surprised he’s gone.

He gets dressed.

The room smells like sick, sour and unpleasant, and the air is too cold but stale. It’s claustrophobic and unpleasant. He can’t wait to leave. He grabs his things and goes, without stopping to consider where he’s going. His head’s still pounding and he’s not sure he won’t be sick again, but he has to get out of there. 

He gets to the lobby and still has no idea where he’s going. Gaz’ll be expecting him to text, to make plans for the afternoon, but Joe can’t take that right now. 

He texts him anyway, because Gaz worries like his mum, _eating w Johno_. He might not be up to seeing him now but he doesn’t want to worry him, never really likes to.

He doesn’t call Johno, though. Instead, he wanders out of the hotel onto the Strip. The sun is harsh and unforgivingly bright. He blinks into it and scrambles for his sunglasses. He jams them on and starts to walk. He’s still unsteady, from being sick, from the pounding in his head, from the lingering memory of Gaz’s touch. 

He wanders aimlessly. It looks different here, during the day, less dazzling display and more frantic desperation. 

He ends up in one of the casinos. It’s loud, too loud for his still aching head, but he stays. He settles himself never the blackjack tables and watches for a bit. He wonders if he could learn. It doesn’t seem so hard. 

He calls Johno eventually, hassles him and laughs when Johno has no clue where he is, not that Joe knows where _he_ is, but nothing ever stops him from laughing at Johno.

When he gets to the restaurant where Johno is, he’s surprised to find that Mendum’s the only one with him. He’d been expecting all of Johno’s mates. Mendum gives him a bit of a look. He’s not sure what that’s about.

He ignores Mendum and slumps down into the empty chair next to Johno. Johno nudges him and says, “Want something to eat?” 

If he eats, Joe’s pretty sure he’ll be sick. Again. “Fuck you,” he snaps.

“What’re you doing here?” Johno asks. He tips his head to the side and adds, with a speculative smirk, “Won’t Gaz miss you?” 

Gaz has lots of things to keep him busy. Joe doesn’t really want to think about any of them. Doesn’t want to think about Gaz at all. He shrugs. “Doubt that.” He pushes sunglasses up. “So what are you guys doing? ‘Cause I was thinking, I’ve always wanted to learn to play blackjack.” It’s utter nonsense, though he wouldn’t mind learning -mostly, he wants a distraction. “What’ya say?”

Johno shares a look with Mendum. Joe forgets, sometimes, that the pair of them have known each other for ages, then they’ll do something like this, have a conversation without a single word. Johno looks back at him. “Blackjack it is, then.”

Joe smiles and claps him on the shoulder. “Knew I could count on you.”

He really does mean to try blackjack but it just seems like too much effort. He’s no idea how to play and he’s not exactly in a fit state to learn something new. He sticks to the slots instead. 

In the first place they go, he loses a lot. It’s nice, though, the easy, mindless repetition of the slots. He doesn’t have to think about it. Doesn’t have to think about anything. Everything’s still too loud--too bright--and his head’s still pounding, but, at least, he’s not thinking. His mobile buzzes a few times but he ignores it. Doesn’t even look to see who’s texting him.

They don’t end up staying too long in the first place. Johno comes over and says, pouting, “M’losing. Let’s go somewhere else, yeah?” 

Mendum, who’s hovering just behind him, rolls his eyes and says, “Really think that’s going to help, do you?” 

Johno flips him off. “Shut it. C’mon, Harty, let’s go.” 

Joe shrugs. One place is as good as the next. “Sure. Let’s go.”

In the next place, before he does anything else, he has something to eat. He’s not sure it’s the best idea, but he’s hungry, so he tries something. Johno smirks a bit and says, “Sure that’s a good idea?”

Joe ignores him and eats. The food settles okay, not great, but he doesn’t think he’ll be barfing it back up. Since food went okay, he decides to have a drink. Johno raises his eyebrows but he doesn’t say anything. 

Joe has some more drinks after that. It’s a bit more fun after that, the gambling, though he never gets to blackjack. He sticks to slot machines. Johno tries to persuade him to try roulette, but Joe stays with the slots. 

It pays off, too, because he actually fucking wins. He can’t quite believe it. He goes to find Johno straight away. He clatters into him. “Johno! Johno, I fucking won, can you believe it?” 

Johno shoves him away. “What?” 

“I won.” 

“You what?” 

“I won. Come on. I’ll buy you a drink.” 

Johno narrows his eyes. “How much?” 

Joe shakes him. “Who the fuck cares? I won. Now c’mon.” 

“Yeah,” Johno says, “Sure. Whatever. Buy me a drink.” Joe buys him more than one drink. 

After that he never really goes back to the gambling. He just keeps drinking. They end up going to another place. Joe thinks because Mendum wants to, but he’s not sure. He’s not really paying attention to anything by that point.

In the new place, he just goes straight for the bar. Johno and Mendum come too. They’re talking, whispering, probably about him, but he doesn’t care. He gets a drink. Gets Mendum and Johno drinks too. 

They have drinks and have a bit of banter. He gives Johno a bit of stick for losing and, just for fun, rubs his winning in his face. After a bit of that, his phone rings. It’s Gaz and he doesn’t think, he just answers. “Gaz!” He hurtles on before Gaz can respond. “Gaz, I won.”

Gaz laughs a bit. “That’s good. Y’having fun then?” 

“I won,” Joe says again. It’s easy now, his mind blurred with drink and the thrill of winning, to talk to Gaz like everything’s normal--like this morning never happened. “I won and Johno didn’t.” 

“Still with Johno, then?” Gaz asks.

“Yeah, ‘course.” 

“I thought,” Gaz says, “Never mind. It’s good, anyway, we’ve been planning, yeah, what to do tonight, y’want ask Johno if he wants to come with. Him and all his mates.”

“Sure, ‘kay.” He doesn’t bother moving his mobile just says, “Hey, what’re you guys doing later? Do you have any plans? ‘Cause Gaz, he--”

Johno doesn’t let him finish. “We do. With Silva and his mates.”

“Oh?” Joe says. He can’t pass this up. He smiles. “With Silva?”

Johno takes the bait. He always does. “Isn’t that what I just said?” 

“Uh-huh, guess you don’t want to come with Gaz and me then.” He pauses then adds, laying it on thick, “Not since you have _plans_ with Silva.”

Johno shoves him and snaps. “Fuck you.” 

Joe considers that a job well done. “Johno,” he says to Gaz, “has _plans._ ” 

Gaz laughs. “I heard, Christ, cut the lad some slack.” 

Joe’s about to protest because he’s never, ever cut Johno slack about anything and he’s not starting now. Before he gets a chance, though, Mendum says, “We should really get going. We have to go back to the hotel and meet everyone else.”

Johno nods. “Hey Joe, you’ll be okay here?” He actually sounds concerned. “We’ve got to go.”

Joe nods. “Yeah, yeah.” 

Johno puts his glass down, too hard and it clatters against the table. “See you, okay, Joe?”

Joe can’t resist having one last go at him. He smiles. “Say hi to Silva for me.”

“Yeah, sure,” Johno says, rolling his eyes, “See you later, yeah?” For all his posturing, though, he’s flushed, his expression blatantly broadcasting his anticipation at seeing Silva. 

Joe, magnanimously, decides not to mention it. He waves instead and says, “Yeah, see you.”

He doesn’t bother to watch them go. “So,” he says, “What’re we doing?”

“Going out,” Gaz says, “Where are you, anyway?”

Joe looks around. He can’t remember the name of the place. “Dunno. Some casino.”

Gaz laughs. “Christ, what? Are you so pissed already, that you don’t know where you are?”

“Fuck you.” Joe says, slouching back, “Know exactly where I’m at.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?” 

“Vegas. That’s where.” 

Gaz splutters. “Harty, that’s--Christ, how pissed are you?”

“M’fine. Just had a few with Johno, yeah, ‘cause I won, right? Had to celebrate.”

“Of course,” Gaz says with mock seriousness, “Had to. How much did y’win anyway?”

“Eh,” Joe says, “Not too much really, but don’t tell Johno.”

“I won’t. Secret’s safe with me.” Gaz’s tone is warm, affectionate, like it always is when he’s indulging Joe about something he actually thinks is ridiculous. 

“Better be,” Joe says.

“Joe,” Gaz’s tone has switched to a wary kind of seriousness, “Joe. You’re all right, yeah? I mean, after-- You’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” Joe says. He doesn’t want to be serious with Gaz right now. He wants to go on playing pretend. It’s easier. “So, tell me more about what we’re doing tonight?”

“Joe--” Gaz starts.

“Don’t,” Joe cuts him off, “Just don’t. There’s nothing-- Just don’t.” 

“Okay,” Gaz says, “Okay. I--ah, okay.” He pauses then says, “So I was thinking...” Joe doesn’t really listen to the rest. He’ll go along with whatever Gaz and everyone else have planned. He doesn’t need to know the details. Details are Gaz’s area, really, not his. “Joe.” Gaz’s voice has gone sharp. It draws Joe’s attention back. “Joe are y’listening?”

“Look,” Joe says, “Just tell me where you want to meet up.”

“You’re not listening to a word I say, are you?” Gaz sounds amused. Annoyed, too, but at least he doesn’t sound concerned, doesn’t have that odd serious note in his voice. 

“Nah. Now where?”

Gaz laughs. “Just come back to the hotel, yeah? We’ll take it from there.”

***

Joe meets Gaz in the lobby. He’s alone. Joe wasn’t expecting that. He means to ask about everyone, but he ends up blurting out, “Where’s Louise?” 

Gaz flinches. “She, ah, she flew back today, didn’t I--I thought, didn’t I tell you?” Joe vaguely remembers something about that. He shrugs. “She, ah, her mum’s been watching the kids and--”

Joe cuts him off, because hearing about Gaz’s kids is almost worse than hearing about Louise, “Whatever.”

“She, ah,” Gaz says, “she wanted me to tell you goodbye. She wanted to see you but, um...” He trails off.

“Yeah,” Joe mumbles, “too bad.” He’d apologize but he’s not sorry, isn’t anything but glad that he doesn’t have to look Louise in the eye and try to be polite, to have her look back and be nice to him. 

“Should we,” Gaz says, “or did you want to change or whatever?” 

“Let’s just go.” He wants away from here, from this conversation, wants a distraction. 

“Sure,” Gaz says, “They all went ahead, you know, for dinner and all that.” 

“Why didn’t you?” Joe asks.

Gaz looks away. “Was just, I wanted--I wanted to wait for you.”

Joe’s not touching that. “Let’s go,” he says, “I’m starved.”

***

They go out, after dinner, them and all their mates, and it’s like every other night they’ve spent in Vegas. Drinks and dancing and more drinks. Club after club, the same thing.

There’s something odd, though, about the way Gaz’s acting. It takes Joe a bit to catch on. It’s just, Gaz isn’t normally so tactile with him. He tolerates Joe’s touch, usually with a kind of good-natured exasperation. He lets Joe sling his arm around his shoulders, lets him hang off of him and get in his space, but he rarely instigates, rarely reaches out and touches Joe. But tonight, it’s like he’s always there, every time Joe turns around, there he is. 

He wonders, fleetingly, if this is what it would’ve been like all along, if Louise hadn’t been there. He wishes, viciously, just for a second, that she hadn’t been, wishes he could have had Gaz all to himself. The guilt is immediate, like a slap to the face, but he shoves it away because, now, he does have Gaz all to himself and Gaz keeps touching him, pulling him close. Joe should try and figure out why, should pull away, but he doesn’t. He wants Gaz to touch him and, no matter how much he does it, Joe’ll just want more. So he doesn’t think about the strangeness, doesn’t think about why. Instead, he leans into Gaz’s side and lets him rest his arm along Joe’s back. Gaz’s happy too, laughing and smiling at him. Joe presses closer, just to see if he can, see if Gaz’ll let him. He does, curves his hand around Joe’s side and pulls him even closer. 

He holds onto him, keeps him close and keeps buying him drinks. When Joe says, half-jokingly, as Gaz presses another shot into his hand, “Y’trying to get me drunk? Huh, Gaz?” he’s shocked when the corners of Gaz’s mouth tug down and he looks away, like he’s feeling guilty. Joe does the shot. He leans in, the taste of liquor still sharp in his mouth, and whispers in Gaz’s ear, “Y’don’t, you know, have to, just--” and Gaz pushes him away.

“Leave off, would you?” He says, like he’s not the one who pulled Joe close in the first place, “Just--just leave off.” It’s half-hearted, though, and he’s staring at Joe’s mouth. 

And Joe would, Joe _should,_ because Louise might’ve gone back home, but it’s like she’s standing just behind Gaz’s shoulder. Gaz is staring at him with such intensity, though, and, for better or worse, mostly worse, Joe _wants_ Gaz, so much more than he wants to do the right thing. So he slowly and deliberately licks his lips, runs the tip of his tongue along his upper lip then drags it along his lower lip. Gaz stares fixedly and Joe says, “Buy me another?”

Gaz blinks, like he’s coming out of a daze. “What?”

“A drink, Gaz, buy me another.”

“Think, maybe,” he says, stuttering, “you’ve had enough, Joe, think...”

“What?” Joe says, taking a step forward, “What do you think?” He takes another step, so they’re toe to toe. “What?”

“I think, _God_ , Joe, what’re you...”

“You’re the one getting me drunk. What’d you think’d happen? What’d you _want_ to happen. You want something, Gaz, just ask.” Gaz looks away but he doesn’t move. “Just ask and I’ll-- _God_ , Gaz, just--” 

“C’mon,” Gaz says, stepping forward and pushing Joe back, “C’mon.” He takes off through the crowd and Joe follows. Gaz doesn’t look back, like he knows Joe’s going to follow him wherever he goes. He’s right, but Joe shoves that aside. He doesn’t want to think about that.

They end up in a bathroom stall which is bigger, Joe thinks, than a lot of bathrooms he’s been in. Gaz doesn’t move, doesn’t touch him. Joe crowds closer. “Well?” he says, because, if he wants it, Gaz is going to have to ask. Joe’s not shouldering this alone. He’s not taking the blame. Gaz can blame the drink if he wants, but he’s not putting this all on Joe. 

“Joe,” Gaz says. He reaches out like he’s going to touch him, then drops his hands.

“What?”

“Can’t you...” Gaz starts. “Joe, just...”

“What do you want, Gaz?”

Gaz straightens up, tips his chin up, expression determined, like he’s made a decision. He reaches out and grabs Joe’s shirt, tumbling him forward. “Like,” he says, without looking Joe in the eye, “before, could you,” he pulls on Joe’s shirt, like he’s trying to bring him to his knees, “that--I--I, Joe, _please._ ” 

“You liked that?”

Gaz nods once, but he still doesn’t look at Joe. “Okay,” Joe says, and gets on his knees.

Gaz’s relatively quiet. He never says Joe’s name, just murmurs a stream of broken choked-off sighs and gasps. He keeps his hands on Joe’s shoulders, digs his fingers in hard and presses down like he’s trying to keep Joe there on his knees, trap him. He doesn’t need to. Joe’s not going anywhere. Joe’s memories of last time are disjointed and blurred, but he thinks Gaz did that last time, too.

He pushes forward into Joe’s mouth, forces him to take more and more, to go deeper. Joe gags a few times but Gaz doesn’t seem to really notice. Joe doesn’t mind, not really, he’ll take it, likes it even; it makes him feel like Gaz wants him, like he can’t get enough. 

He looks up at Gaz, watches his face, but Gaz’s eyes are closed and his face is turned away. It’s always going to be like this between them, Joe thinks, furtive and frantic, Gaz a bit ashamed, and him the one down on his knees.

He doesn’t warn Joe, just comes with a shattered, rasping sigh of Joe’s name. He opens his eyes, looks at Joe for the first time. Joe swallows and Gaz runs shaking fingers down his cheek, traces his mouth. “God, Joe--I, _Joe._ ” Joe pulls away but Gaz keeps touching him, skating his fingers along his cheeks, his mouth, his forehead, through his hair. It’s somehow more intimate than having his cock in his mouth. He’s saying Joe’s name, reverent and disbelieving, like a promise, one he’ll never be able to keep, and Joe can hardly stand it. 

Joe scrambles to his feet and tries to back away but Gaz grabs his shirt and hauls him close. “Don’t, Joe, c’mon, I want, let me.” He hooks his fingers into the top of Joe’s pants. “C’mon.” 

He lets Gaz pull him close and unfasten the buttons on his pants. Gaz pauses at the zipper. Joe pushes forward into his hands, impatient and desperate for his touch. Gaz fumbles. He looks suddenly startled, like he’s not sure what he’s doing, putting his hands on Joe. “C’mon, Gaz,” he says, clutching at Gaz’s shirt and pulling him closer, “just...”

“Yeah,” Gaz says, “okay,” and keeps going. He pauses again once he gets Joe’s zipper down.

Joe’s out of patience. He pulls on Gaz’s shoulders. “Come on, won’t you...”

Gaz drops his hands. “You want me to...” Joe hadn’t really been asking for that, he’d just wanted Gaz to hurry up and touch him. 

Now, though, he can’t stop himself from blurting, “And if I do?”

“I, uh--” Gaz’s gaze flickers down and he actually tries to take a step back. 

Joe doesn’t let him. He digs his fingers into Gaz’s shoulders and holds him in place.  
“Oh, so it’s all right for me, but not for you? Fuck you, Gaz.”

“But you,” Gaz stutters, “you...”

“I what?” 

Gaz licks his lips and glances at Joe’s mouth. “You like it.”

Joe wants to hit him, punch him right in the face. “Yeah, Gaz, yeah I like it.” He hauls him close. “And you, you like having me down there, like having my mouth on your cock, don’t you?” Gaz makes a low, desperate sound that Joe ignores. “But you’re not getting on your knees, are you? What? Can’t close your eyes and pretend you’re not doing this if you do that? Can’t pretend you’re just fucking around, doing this just ‘cause you’re pissed and want to get off or some shit like that. Fuck you Gaz. You like me on my knees for you, mouth full of your cock. You liked it now and you liked it before, and Gaz, this time you fucking asked for it, so open your fucking eyes and quit pretending.” He shoves Gaz away into the door and it clatters, the sound loud and discordant in the sudden quiet. 

“Joe,” Gaz says. He’s sheet white and unsteady looking. Probably the drink. “Joe I--” He reaches out. Joe slaps his hand away. “Joe,” he says again, stepping forward. “I--I--’

“Fuck you,” Joe says tiredly, “just--” and Gaz gets down on his knees. 

“Okay,” Gaz says, shaky but determined, “Okay, I, all right,” and puts his hands on Joe. He’s too shocked to stop him.

It’s painfully obvious that Gaz’s never done this before. He’s tentative and sloppy and doesn’t know what to do to not use his teeth. It’s kind of horrible really, but it’s Gaz down on his knees for him and that’s amazing. Joe tries to talk him through it, help him out. Gaz is a good listener, it’s why coaches love him, but he’s not usually listening to Joe, usually Joe’s listening to him. It’s a charge, an extra thrill, to have Gaz listening so attentively to him, having him try to do everything Joe says. 

He doesn’t look at Joe, though, not once. He does what Joe says. Sucks harder. Covers his teeth. He does everything Joe asks but he doesn’t look up at him. Not once. Joe, though, Joe can’t look away. He loves the way Gaz looks, mouth stretched wide by his cock. He wants to see every detail of everything Gaz does to him. He likes the little, nervous flick of his tongue across his lower lip. He likes the way he tentatively, just with the tip of his tongue, licks across the head of Joe’s cock. Likes the way he does it again, more boldly, using his whole tongue. Likes the way he hesitates with just the tip of Joe’s cock in his mouth then pushes himself farther down. It’s transfixing, all of it, every detail, and Joe can’t look away.

After a bit, though, he takes pity on Gaz and says, “C’mon, then, it’s--it’s all right.” A part of him wants to keep Gaz down there, make him work at it until his jaw aches, until he makes Joe come, but they don’t really have the time for that.

“No,” Gaz says doggedly, “I can--”

Joe appreciates the sentiment, _God does he ever_ , but he hauls Gaz up. “It’s fine, c’mon, just,” he pulls him forward, “just, could you?” Gaz doesn’t hesitate now, he puts his hand right on Joe. He’s better at this. His grip is strong and sure. 

Joe pushes into his hand and dips his head, looking for a kiss but Gaz turns away and his mouth drags across Gaz’s cheek. “Joe, no I--” 

“What?” Joe says, following Gaz, pressing his forehead against Gaz’s hair. “Why not? _Please._ ” 

He’s still touching Joe, fast and rough, but he’s pulling away. “But, I, you can’t, I had--”

“Don’t care, Gaz, just please, _please._ ” 

Gaz turns, nudges his mouth against Joe’s cheek, his breath hot and moist on Joe’s skin. “I don’t, I, _Joe._ ” He presses a sloppy kiss to Joe’s cheek and tightens his hand on his cock. “Let’s just, I’ll--”

“You said,” Joe manages, “said you wanted to and we did, and Gaz, _please,_ I want...” 

Gaz turns just enough for their mouths to catch together. He tastes sharp and sour from the drink and there’s just a hint of Joe there, salt and bitter, on his lips. It’s good, though, because once he starts he doesn’t stop. Joe’s not used to being overrun, dominated, when he’s being kissed, but that’s what Gaz does. It’s unexpected and good in ways he doesn’t want to think about. So he doesn’t think. He fists his hands in Gaz’s shirt and lets him kiss him and touch him. 

Gaz doesn’t stop when Joe comes. He swallows Joe’s startled gasp and keeps kissing him, slower, with an odd gentleness, like he’s soothing him. When he pulls away, he pulls all the way away, taking his hands off Joe and leaving him swaying and dazed. “We should,” he says, “I’ll--I’ll go first and you--”

Joe blinks at him. He licks his lips, tastes Gaz and a bit of himself, and tries to understand what Gaz is saying. “What?” 

“We should go.” He sounds so serious and he doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s gone before Joe can even open his mouth to reply. 

Joe stares at the stall door swinging in Gaz’s wake and can scarcely believe he’s gone. He pulls the door shut again and locks it. He looks down at himself. His pants are still undone and his shirt is shoved up. Gaz must’ve wiped his hand on his stomach because he’s got come smeared all over. He feels dazed and grimy and _used_. He does up his pants, slow and careful, trying to collect himself. He ends up using toilet paper to clean up. 

When he leaves the stall, he spends a long time washing his hands and staring at himself in the mirror. 

He goes straight to the bar, doesn’t look for Gaz in the crowd, and drinks until he can’t taste him anymore. 

The rest of the night spins out into an unremarkable blur. He ignores Gaz until he forgets why, until the memory of his hands and his mouth on him fades away, drowned by the drink, the loud, pounding music, and the frantic crowds. 

***

Joe’s awakened the next day by his mobile. He ignores it, jams his pillow over his head and tries to go back to sleep. It stops and then starts again right away. He ignores it again but, when it rings a third time, he can’t take it any more and he snatches it up and snaps, “What?”

“Joe.” It’s Gaz. Of course it’s Gaz. 

Joe flops over onto his back. “Yeah.’

“I was,” Gaz says, “do you want breakfast?”

Joe wants to go back to sleep. “Now?”

“Yeah.”

“Gaz, I don’t--”

“Please,” Gaz interrupts.

“Fine,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut, “But I’m not showering and you’re buying.”

Gaz laughs, huffy and startled, “Fine.”

Joe yawns, so wide it feels like his jaw’s going to crack. “Where?” he tries to ask, mid yawn, ”do you want to go?”

“What?”

“Where?” he says again.

“Oh,” Gaz says, “I’m downstairs, in the restaurant.” 

Joe rubs his hand across his face. “Okay, I’ll--I’ll be right there, get me some coffee or something.”

Gaz is easy to spot in the almost empty restaurant. He’s slouched over the table, fiddling with the table setting. Joe dodges the hostess, says quickly, “M’just meeting my friend, he’s--” She lets him scoot around her.

He plops down across from Gaz and hits his knee against the table. The whole thing rattles, cutlery jumping and dancing, and Gaz starts, drops the spoon he’s holding and straightens up. “Harty.” He says it like a question.

Joe rolls his eyes. “Where’s my coffee?” 

Gaz slouches back against the chair. “Oh,” he says, gesturing vaguely, “It’s coming. I asked for it.” He goes back to fiddling with the cutlery, rearranging the place setting Joe disrupted.

Joe kicks his foot. “So?” He didn’t drag himself out of bed to watch Gaz line up forks and spoons. 

Gaz looks up. “So, breakfast,” he says looking in Joe’s direction without looking him in the eyes.

“Right,” Joe says, “Sure.” 

The waitress comes with the coffee before Joe can say anything else. “Are you all ready to order?” she asks with a smile just a shade too wide to be sincere.

“Can you,” Gaz says, “Can we just have a minute?”

She smiles wider and says, “Of course, y’all take your time.”

Once she’s gone, Joe waits for Gaz to say something. Instead, Gaz picks up his coffee, puts it back down without taking a sip, and starts fiddling with the mug. 

Joe keeps waiting. He takes a sip of coffee. It’s too hot, burns his tongue, he takes another sip anyway. He finishes half the cup waiting for Gaz to say something. Then he’s had enough. He slams the mug down. The coffee sloshes but it doesn’t spill. Gaz looks up at the clatter, wide-eyed and anxious, but he doesn’t say anything. Joe’s had it. He’s not going to sit here, drinking coffee, poking at a breakfast he doesn’t want, while he waits for Gaz to work up to mumbling something about how they should never have or some shit. “It never happened.” 

Gaz looks at him for the first time since he sat down. “What?” 

“That’s what you’re going to say, right? It never happened. It was a mistake. Let’s just forget it. Just like last time. Let’s pretend it never happened. That’s what you’re going to say, so I’m saying it for you.” 

“Joe, God...” He sounds pained, desperate. “Joe.”

“Oh,” Joe says harshly, “You were going to say something else?” Gaz looks back down and shakes his head. “Yeah,” Joe says, his stomach flips, he shouldn’t have drunk the coffee. “That’s what I thought. Fine. It never happened.” He stands up. “Don’t think I want breakfast after all.” Gaz looks stricken but he doesn’t say anything and when Joe turns and walks away Gaz doesn’t call after him, doesn’t try and stop him. 

He passes the waitress, who gives him a puzzled little smile. “Sir, you’re not staying?”

“No,” he says, without stopping, “I’m not staying.”

He goes upstairs and goes back to bed but he can’t sleep. He tosses and turns for awhile and then he gives up and gets in the shower. The shower wakes him up but it leaves him restless and out of sorts. 

His first instinct is to text Gaz. It’s always his first instinct. Then he remembers the morning and stops. He texts one of his other mates instead. 

He ends up going out to lunch with him and loads of others. It’s easy, mindless fun. The food’s good and the banter is nonstop and no one asks him where Gaz is. 

Johno texts him just as they’re finishing. _what u doing?_

Joe calls him. “Why?”

“Wanna come out?” Johno asks easily, “We’re going back to the casinos.”

“Mind if I bring people?”

“Bring whoever y’want.” Johno tells him where he and his mates are then hangs up.

In the end, Joe can only convince about half his mates but, whatever, he just wants the distraction of the gambling, the easy uncomplicated company. 

Gaz texts once, _where?_ is all it says. Joe texts back _w johno_. Gaz doesn’t text again.

When they get to where Johno and his mates are, he says to Johno, “What, decided you didn’t lose enough yesterday?” 

Johno shrugs, gestures haphazardly at his mates, and says, “They was a bit mad we went without’em.” He smiles at Joe. He seems relaxed--happy. Joe envies him that.

It’s a nice enough afternoon. One of Johno’s mates actually knows how to play blackjack and he teaches Joe. Joe loses loads of money but it’s a good enough time. In the end, though, he’s not sure blackjack’s really for him. He ends up going back to the slot machines but his luck from yesterday is gone and he loses and loses and loses some more. 

Johno laughs at him a lot and doesn’t gamble at all but he also keeps buying him drinks and doesn’t ask any questions. In return, Joe refrains from hassling him about how he keeps checking his mobile or about the way he smiles like a besotted git every time he gets a text. 

***

They all meet up later. Johno and his mates, his and Gaz’s mates. The crowd makes everything seem normal. Makes it easy to skirt around Gaz, to be close to him but not actually talk to him. 

It’s their last night so they go a bit crazy. Gaz puts up a few protests early on about how their flight leaves early the next morning but Joe just says, “Who’s going to sleep, huh, Gaz?”

Johno backs him up, laughing a bit at Gaz and saying, “Can’t stay up all night? Think you’re getting a bit past it, mate.”

Gaz shoves Johno away and snaps, “We’ll see who’s past it, you’ll never make it,” and that’s that. Things spin wildly out of control after that. Not that they were really in control to start with. 

Joe reaches a point where he can’t tell if it’s the drink or the exhaustion that’s making everything spin and blur around him. It’s late, early really, and he can’t see straight, doesn’t even know where they are. He’s following Johno somewhere; where, he’s forgotten. He stumbles, almost falls forward into Johno’s back. 

Someone hauls him back, though, before he falls. “Harty, Joe, fuck, you--” It’s Gaz. “Got to watch out, yeah?” Gaz’s left his hands on Joe’s hips. He’s practically leaning against Joe’s back. He’s too close.

Joe turns, tries to dislodge him, it just makes Gaz stumble forward into him. Gaz laughs. “See, watch--watch where--” He’s all tangled up in Joe’s arms, laughing against his throat, his mouth glancing against his skin.

He straightens Gaz up and Gaz smiles at him. _It never happened,_ he thinks, looking at the curve of Gaz’s mouth, the way Gaz’s gaze flicks down to his lips, _it never happened._ And it’ll never happen over and over again. “You know what you need, Harty?” Gaz says, still laughing.

“What?”

“Another drink.” He tugs on Joe’s shirt. “C’mon. Let’s go, you can buy me a drink too.”

“Oh,” Joe says, smiling a little, “so that’s the way of it, is it?” Gaz doesn’t answer. He starts pulling Joe through the crowd.

Joe buys him a drink, makes sure, just for spite, that it has rum in it. Gaz takes a sip and makes a face at him. “Harty,” he says reproachfully. 

Joe bolts his own drink and says, “Don’t drink it then, if you don’t want to.”

“S’not good,” Gaz frowns, “s’not good idea, me and rum.”

Joe shrugs. “Like I said, don’t drink it then.” Gaz stares at him for a second then he empties the drink in two fast gulps. “Another?” Joe asks and Gaz nods. “The same again?”

Gaz turns, nudges his shoulder against Joe’s. “Yeah, Harty, same again.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This story was inspired, in large part, by [this article](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2003865/Man-City-footballer-Gareth-Barry-rubs-suncream-Joe-Hart-Las-Vegas.html). Mostly by the pictures.
> 
> 2\. The trip to Scotland referred to in the story is [this one](http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/2010/oct/29/manchester-city-drining-roberto-mancini). You can watch them be drunk and stupid [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I51gcgYsi-w).
> 
> 3\. Frank Lampard was in [Vegas](http://i1203.photobucket.com/albums/bb396/justkisa/jh_gb_dale_frank_lampard.jpg) at the same time as the City boys.


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